DARKWATER 


DARKWATER 

THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  COMPLETION 
OF  "UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN" 


BY 
W.  E.  BURGHARDT  DU  BOIS 

AUTHOR   OF    "THE   SOULS   OF   BLACK   FOLK,"    "THE   QUEST 
OF   THE    SILVER    FLEECE,"    ETC. 


AUSTIN   JENKINS   CO. 

Manufacturing  Publishers  of  Subscription  Books 
Agents  Wanted  Washington,  D.  C. 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE   AND   HOWE,    INC. 


THE  OUINN  &  BODEN  CO.  PRESS 

RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


AD    NINAM 

MAY  12,  1896 


POSTSCRIPT 

THESE  are  the  things  of  which  men  think,  who  live: 
of  their  own  selves  and  the  dwelling  place  of  their 
fathers;  of  their  neighbors;  of  work  and  service;  of 
rule  and  reason  and  women  and  children;  of  Beauty 
and  Death  and  War.  To  this  thinking  I  have  only  to 
add  a  point  of  view:  I  have  been  in  the  world,  but 
not  of  it.  I  have  seen  the  human  drama  from  a  veiled 
corner,  where  all  the  outer  tragedy  and  comedy  have 
reproduced  themselves  in  microcosm  within.  From 
this  inner  torment  of  souls  the  human  scene  without 
has  interpreted  itself  to  me  in  unusual  and  even  illumi 
nating  ways.  For  this  reason,  and  this  alone,  I  ven 
ture  to  write  again  on  themes  on  which  great  souls 
have  already  said  greater  words,  in  the  hope  that  I 
may  strike  here  and  there  a  half-tone,  newer  even  if 
slighter,  up  from  the  heart  of  my  problem  and  the 
problems  of  my  people. 

Between  the  sterner  flights  of  logic,  I  have  sought 
to  set  some  little  alightings  of  what  may  be  poetry. 
They  are  tributes  to  Beauty,  unworthy  to  stand  alone ; 
yet  perversely,  in  my  mind,  now  at  the  end,  I  know 
not  whether  I  mean  the  Thought  for  the  Fancy — or 
the  Fancy  for  the  Thought,  or  why  the  book  trails 
off  to  playing,  rather  than  standing  strong  on  unan- 
swering  fact.  But  this  is  alway — is  it  not? — the  Rid 
dle  of  Life. 

vii 


viii  POSTSCRIPT 

Many  of  my  words  appear  here  transformed  from 
other  publications  and  I  thank  the  Atlantic,  the  Inde 
pendent,  the  Crisis,  and  the  Journal  of  Race  Develop 
ment  for  letting  me  use  them  again. 

W.    E.   BURGHARDT   Du   BoiS. 
New  York,  1919. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

POSTSCRIPT       .       .              >       .       .  vii 

Credo 3 

I.    THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  .  5 

A  Litany  at  Atlanta        ......  25 

II.     THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK        ...  29 

The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx     ....  53 

III.  THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA     ....  56 
The  Princess  of  the  Hither  Isles  ...  75 

IV.  OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH       .       .       .       .81 
The  Second  Coming 105 

V.     "THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE"       .       .  109 

Jesus  Christ  in  Texas 123 

VI.    OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN      ....  134 

The  Call    .       .       .       ,       ...       .  161 

VII.    THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN       .       .       .163 

Children  of  the  Moon     .....  187 

VIII.     THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD          .;  193 

Almighty  Death       .       .       .       >       .       .  219 

IX.    OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH       ....  221 

The  Prayers  of  God       .       .       .       .       .  249 

X.    THE  COMET     ........  253 

A  Hymn  to  the  Peoples  .       .       .       .       .  275 


DARKWATER 


Credo 

I  BELIEVE  in  God,  who  made  of  one  blood  all  nations 
that  on  earth  do  dwell.  I  believe  that  all  men,  black 
and  brown  and  white,  are  brothers,  varying  through  time 
and  opportunity,  in  form  and  gift  and  feature,  but  differ 
ing  in  no  essential  particular,  and  alike  in  soul  and  the 
possibility  of  infinite  development. 

Especially  do  I  believe  in  the  Negro  Race :  in  the 
beauty  of  its  genius,  the  sweetness  of  its  soul,  and  its 
strength  in  that  meekness  which  shall  yet  inherit  this  tur 
bulent  earth. 

I  believe  in  Pride  of  race  and  lineage  and  self :  in 
pride  of  self  so  deep  as  to  scorn  injustice  to  other  selves; 
in  pride  of  lineage  so  great  as  to  despise  no  man's  father; 
in  pride  of  race  so  chivalrous  as  neither  to  offer  bastardy 
to  the  weak  nor  beg  wedlock  of  the  strong,  knowing  that 
men  may  be  brothers  in  Christ,  even  though  they  be  not 
brothers-in-law. 

I  believe  in  Service — humble,  reverent  service,  from  the 
blackening  of  boots  to  the  whitening  of  souls ;  for  Work 
is  Heaven,  Idleness  Hell,  and  Wage  is  the  "  Well  done !  " 
of  the  Master,  who  summoned  all  them  that  labor  and 
are  heavy  laden,  making  no  distinction  between  the  black, 
sweating  cotton  hands  of  Georgia  and  the  first  families 
of  Virginia,  since  all  distinction  not  based  on  deed  is 
devilish  and  not  divine. 

I  believe  in  the  Devil  and  his  angels,  who  wantonly 
work  to  narrow  the  opportunity  of  struggling  human 
beings,  especially  if  they  be  black ;  who  spit  in  the  faces 
of  the  fallen,  strike  them  that  cannot  strike  again,  be 
lieve  the  worst  and  work  to  prove  it,  hating  the  image 
which  their  Maker  stamped  on  a  brother's  soul. 

3 


4  DARKWATER 

I  believe  in  the  Prince  of  Peace.  I  believe  that  War 
is  Murder.  I  believe  that  armies  and  navies  are  at  bot 
tom  the  tinsel  and  braggadocio  of  oppression  and  wrong, 
and  I  believe  that  the  wicked  conquest  of  weaker  and 
darker  nations  by  nations  whiter  and  stronger  but  fore 
shadows  the  death  of  that  strength. 

I  believe  in  Liberty  for  all  men:  the  space  to  stretch 
their  arms  and  their  souls,  the  right  to  breathe  and  the 
right  to  vote,  the  freedom  to  choose  their  friends,  enjoy 
the  sunshine,  and1  ride  on  the  railroads,  uncursed  by 
color ;  thinking,  dreaming,  working  as  they  will  in  a  king 
dom  of  beauty  and  love. 

I  believe  in  the  Training  of  Children,  black  even  as 
white;  the  leading  out  of  little  souls  into  the  green  pas 
tures  and  beside  the  still  waters,  not  for  pelf  or  peace, 
but  for  life  lit  by  some  large  vision  of  beauty  and  good 
ness  and  truth;  lest  we  forget,  and  the  sons  of  the 
fathers,  like  Esau,  for  mere  meat  barter  their  birthright 
in  a  mighty  nation. 

Finally,  I  believe  in  Patience — patience  with  the  weak 
ness  of  the  Weak  and  the  strength  of  the  Strong,  the 
prejudice  of  the  Ignorant  and  the  ignorance  of  the  Blind ; 
patience  with  the  tardy  triumph  of  Joy  and  the  mad 
chastening  of  Sorrow ;— patience  with  God! 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS 

I  WAS  born  by  a  golden  river  and  in  the  shadow  of 
two  great  hills,  five  years  after  the  Emancipation 
Proclamation.  The  house  was  quaint,  with  clap 
boards  running  up  and  down,  neatly  trimmed,  and 
there  were  five  rooms,  a  tiny  porch,  a  rosy  front  yard, 
and  unbelievably  delicious  strawberries  in  the  rear.  A 
South  Carolinian,  lately  come  to  the  Berkshire  Hills, 
owned  all  this — tall,  thin,  and  black,  with  golden  ear 
rings,  and  given  to  religious  trances.  We  were  his 
transient  tenants  for  the  time. 

My  own  people  were  part  of  a  great  clan.  Fully 
two  hundred  years  before,  Tom  Burghardt  had  come 
through  the  western  pass  from  the  Hudson  with  his 
Dutch  captor,  "  Coenraet  Burghardt,"  sullen  in  his 
slavery  and  achieving  his  freedom  by  volunteering 
for  the  Revolution  at  a  time  of  sudden  alarm.  His 
wife  was  a  little,  black,  Bantu  woman,  who  never 
became  reconciled  to  this  strange  land;  she  clasped 
her  knees  and  rocked  and  crooned : 

"  Do  bana  coba — gene  me,  gene  me ! 
Ben  d'nuli,  ben  d'le " 

Tom  died  about  1787,  but  of  him  came  many  sons, 
and  one,  Jack,  who  helped  in  the  War  of  1812.  Of 

5. 


6  DARKWATER 

Jack  and  his  wife,  Violet,  was  born  a  mighty  family, 
splendidly  named:  Harlow  and  Ira,  Cloe,  Lucinda, 
Maria,  and  Othello!  I  dimly  remember  my  grand 
father,  Othello, — or  "  Uncle  Tallow," — a  brown  man, 
strong-voiced  and  redolent  with  tobacco,  who  sat 
stiffly  in  a  great  high  chair  because  his  hip  was  broken. 
He  was  probably  a  bit  lazy  and  given  to  wassail.  At 
any  rate,  grandmother  had  a  shrewish  tongue  and 
often  berated  him.  This  grandmother  was  Sarah — 
"  Aunt  Sally  " — a  stern,  tall,  Dutch-African  woman, 
beak-nosed,  but  beautiful-eyed  and  golden-skinned. 
Ten  or  more  children  were  theirs,  of  whom  the  young 
est  was  Mary,  my  mother. 

Mother  was  dark  shining  bronze,  with  a  tiny  ripple 
in  her  black  hair,  black-eyed,  with  a  heavy,  kind  face. 
She  gave  one  the  impression  of  infinite  patience,  but 
a  curious  determination  was  concealed  in  her  softness. 
The  family  were  small  farmers  on  Egremont  Plain, 
between  Great  Barrington  and  Sheffield,  Massachu 
setts.  The  bits  of  land  were  too  small  to  support  the 
great  families  born  on  them  and  we  were  always  poor. 
I  never  remember  being  cold  or  hungry,  but  I  do  re 
member  that  shoes  and  coal,  and  sometimes  flour, 
caused  mother  moments  of  anxious  thought  in  winter, 
and  a  new  suit  was  an  event ! 

•At  about  the  time  of  my  birth  economic  pressure 
was  transmuting  the  family  generally  from  farmers 
to  "  hired  "  help.  Some  revolted  and  migrated  west 
ward,  others  went  cityward  as  cooks  and  barbers. 
Mother  worked  for  some  years  at  house  service  in 
Great  Barrington,  and  after  a  disappointed  love  epi- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  7 

sode  with  a  cousin,  who  went  to  California,  she  met 
and  married  Alfred  Du  Bois  and  went  to  town  to 
live  by  the  golden  river  where  I  was  born. 

Alfred,  my  father,  must  have  seemed  a  splendid 
vision  in  that  little  valley  under  the  shelter  of  those 
mighty  hills.  He  was  small  and  beautiful  of  face 
and  feature,  just  tinted  with  the  sun,  his  curly  hair 
chiefly  revealing  his  kinship  to  Africa.  In  nature  he 
was  a  dreamer, — romantic,  indolent,  kind,  unreliable. 
He  had  in  him  the  making  of  a  poet,  an  adventurer, 
or  a  Beloved  Vagabond,  according  to  the  life  that 
closed  round  him;  and  that  life  gave  him  all  too  little. 
His  father,  Alexander  Du  Bois,  cloaked  under  a  stern, 
austere  demeanor  a  passionate  revolt  against  the 
world.  He,  too,  was  small,  but  squarish.  I  remember 
him  as  I  saw  him  first,  in  his  home  in  New  Bedford, 
— white  hair  close-cropped;  a  seamed,  hard  face,  but 
high  in  tone,  with  a  gray  eye  that  could  twinkle  or 
glare. 

Long  years  before  him  Louis  XIV  drove  two 
Huguenots,  Jacques  and  Louis  Du  Bois,  into  wild 
Ulster  County,  New  York.  One  of  them  in  the  third 
or  fourth  generation  had  a  descendant,  Dr.  James  Du 
Bois,  a  gay,  rich  bachelor,  who  made  his  money  in 
the  Bahamas,  where  he  and  the  Gilberts  had  planta 
tions.  There  he  took  a  beautiful  little  mulatto  slave 
as  his  mistress,  and  two  sons  were  born:  Alexander 
in  1803  and  John,  later.  They  were  fine,  straight, 
clear-eyed  boys,  white  enough  to  "  pass."  He  brought 
them  to  America  and  put  Alexander  in  the  celebrated 
Cheshire  School,  in  Connecticut.  Here  he  often  vis- 


8  DARKWATER 

ited  him,  but  one  last  time,  fell  dead.  He  left  no  will, 
and  his  relations  made  short  shrift  of  these  sons. 
They  gathered  in  the  property,  apprenticed  grand 
father  to  a  shoemaker;  then  dropped  him. 

Grandfather  took  his  bitter  dose  like  a  thorough 
bred.  Wild  as  was  his  inner  revolt  against  this  treat 
ment,  he  uttered  no  word  against  the  thieves  and  made 
no  plea.  He  tried  his  fortunes  here  and  in  Haiti, 
where,  during  his  short,  restless  sojourn,  my  own 
father  was  born.  Eventually,  grandfather  became 
chief  steward  on  the  passenger  boat  between  New 
York  and  New  Haven;  later  he  was  a  small  merchant 
in  Springfield;  and  finally  he  retired  and  ended  his 
days  at  New  Bedford.  Always  he  held  his  head  high, 
took  no  insults,  made  few  friends.  He  was  not  a 
"Negro";  he  was  a  man!  Yet  the  current  was  too 
strong  even  for  him.  Then  even  more  than  now  a 
colored  man  had  colored  friends  or  none  at  all,  lived 
in  a  colored  world  or  lived  alone.  A  few  fine,  strong, 
black  men  gained  the  heart  of  this  silent,  bitter  man 
in  New  York  and  New  Haven.  If  he  had  scant  sym 
pathy  with  their  social  clannishness,  he  was  with  them 
in  fighting  discrimination.  So,  when  the  white  Epis 
copalians  of  Trinity  Parish,  New  Haven,  showed 
plainly  that  they  no  longer  wanted  black  folk  as  fellow 
Christians,  he  led  the  revolt  which  resulted  in  St. 
Luke's  Parish,  and  was  for  years  its  senior  warden. 
He  lies  dead  in  the  Grove  Street  Cemetery,  beside 
Jehudi  Ashmun. 

Beneath  his  sternness  was  a  very  human  man.  Slyly 
he  wrote  poetry, — stilted,  pleading  things  from  a  soul 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  g 

astray.  He  loved  women  in  his  masterful  way,  marry 
ing  three  beautiful  wives  in  succession  and  clinging 
to  each  with  a  certain  desperate,  even  if  unsympa 
thetic,  affection.  As  a  father  he  was,  naturally,  a  fail 
ure, — hard,  domineering,  unyielding.  His  four  chil 
dren  reacted  characteristically:  one  was  until  past 
middle  life  a  thin  spinster,  the  mental  image  of  her 
father;  one  died;  one  passed  over  into  the  white  world 
and  her  children's  children  are  no'w  white,  with  no 
knowledge  of  their  Negro  blood;  the  fourth,  my 
father,  bent  before  grandfather,  but  did  not  break — 
better  if  he  had.  He  yielded  and  flared  back,  asked 
forgiveness  and  forgot  why,  became  the  harshly-held 
favorite,  who  ran  away  and  rioted  and  roamed  and 
loved  and  married  my  brown  mother. 

So  with  some  circumstance  having  finally  gotten 
myself  born,  with  a  flood  of  Negro  blood,  a  strain 
of  French,  a  bit  of  Dutch,  but,  thank  God!  no 
"  Anglo-Saxon,"  I  come  to  the  days  of  my  child 
hood. 

They  were  very  happy.  Early  we  moved  back  to 
Grandfather  Burghardt's  home, — I  barely  remember 
its  stone  fireplace,  big  kitchen,  and  delightful  wood 
shed.  Then  this  house  passed  to  other  branches  of 
the  clan  and  we  moved  to  rented  quarters  in  town, — 
to  one  delectable  place  "  upstairs/'  with  a  wide  yard 
full  of  shrubbery,  and  a  brook;  to  another  house  abut 
ting  a  railroad,  with  infinite  interests  and  astonishing 
playmates ;  and  finally  back  to  the  quiet  street  on  which 
I  was  born, — down  a  long  lane  and  in  a  homely,  cozy 
cottage,  with  a  living-room,  a  tiny  sitting-room,  a  pan- 


io  DARKWATER 

try,  and  two  attic  bedrooms.  Here  mother  and  I 
lived  until  she  died,  in  1884,  for  father  early  began 
his  restless  wanderings.  I  last  remember  urgent  let 
ters  for  us  to  come  to  New  Mil  ford,  where  he  had 
started  a  barber  shop.  Later  he  became  a  preacher. 
But  mother  no  longer  trusted  his  dreams,  and  he  soon 
faded  out  of  our  lives  into  silence. 

From  the  age  of  five  until  I  was  sixteen  I  went  to 
school  on  the  same  grounds, — down  a  lane,  into  a 
widened  yard,  with  a  big  choke-cherry  tree  and  two 
buildings,  wood  and  brick.  Here  I  got  acquainted 
with  my  world,  and  soon  had  my  criterions  of  judg 
ment. 

Wealth  had  no  particular  lure.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  shadow  of  wealth  was  about  us.  That  river  of 
my  birth  was  golden  because  of  the  woolen  and  paper 
waste  that  soiled  it.  The  gold  was  theirs,  not  ours; 
but  the  gleam  and  glint  was  for  all.  To  me  it  was 
all  in  order  and  I  took  it  philosophically.  I  cordially 
despised  the  poor  Irish  and  South  Germans,  who  slaved 
in  the  mills,  and  annexed  the  rich  and  well-to-do  as 
my  natural  companions.  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
snobs ! 

Most  of  our  townfolk  were,  naturally,  the  well- 
to-do,  shading  downward,  but  seldom  reaching  pov 
erty.  As  playmate  of  the  children  I  saw  the  homes 
of  nearly  every  one,  except  a  few  immigrant  New 
Yorkers,  of  whom  none  of  us  approved.  The  homes 
I  saw  impressed  me,  but  did  not  overwhelm  me. 
Many  were  bigger  than  mine,  with  newer  and  shinier 
things,  but  they  did  not  seem  to  differ  in  kind.  I 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  n 

think  I  probably  surprised  my  hosts  more  than  they 
me,  for  I  was  easily  at  home  and  perfectly  happy 
and  they  looked  to  me  just  like  ordinary  people,  while 
my  brown  face  and  frizzled  hair  must  have  seemed 
strange  to  them. 

Yet  I  was  very  much  one  of  them.  I  was  a  center 
and  sometimes  the  leader  of  the  town  gang  of  boys. 
We  were  noisy,  but  never  very  bad, — and,  indeed, 
my  mother's  quiet  influence  came  in  here,  as  I  realize 
now.  She  did  not  try  to  make  me  perfect.  To  her 
I  was  already  perfect.  She  simply  warned  me  of  a 
few  things,  especially  saloons.  In  my  town  the  saloon 
was  the  open  door  to  hell.  The  best  families  had  their 
drunkards  and  the  worst  had  little  else. 

Very  gradually, — I  cannot  now  distinguish  the  steps, 
though  here  and  there  I  remember  a  jump  or  a  jolt — 
but  very  gradually  I  found  myself  assuming  quite 
placidly  that  I  was  different  from  other  children.  At 
first  I  think  I  connected  the  difference  with  a  manifest 
ability  to  get  my  lessons  rather  better  than  most  and 
to  recite  with  a  certain,  happy,  almost  taunting,  glib- 
ness,  which  brought  frowns  here  and  there.  Then, 
slowly,  I  realized  that  some  folks,  a  few,  even  several, 
actually  considered  my  brown  skin  a  misfortune;  once 
or  twice  I  became  painfully  aware  that  some  human 
beings  even  thought  it  a  crime.  I  was  not  for  a  mo 
ment  daunted, — although,  of  course,  there  were  some 
days  of  secret  tears — rather  I  was  spurred  to  tireless 
effort.  If  they  beat  me  at  anything,  I  was  grimly 
determined  to  make  them  sweat  for  it!  Once  I  re 
member  challenging  a  great,  hard  farmer-boy  to  battle, 


12  DARKWATER 

when  I  knew  he  could  whip  me;  and  he  did.  But 
ever  after,  he  was  polite. 

As  time  flew  I  felt  not  so  much  disowned  and  re 
jected  as  rather  drawn  up  into  higher  spaces  and 
made  part  of  a  mightier  mission.  At  times  I  almost 
pitied  my  pale  companions,  who  were  not  of  the  Lord's 
anointed  and  who  saw  in  their  dreams  no  splendid 
quests  of  golden  fleeces. 

Even  in  the  matter  of  girls  my  peculiar  phantasy 
asserted  itself.  Naturally,  it  was  in  our  town  voted 
bad  form  for  boys  of  twelve  and  fourteen  to  show 
any  evident  weakness  for  girls.  We  tolerated  them 
loftily,  and  now  and  then  they  played  in  our  games, 
when  I  joined  in  quite  as  naturally  as  the  rest.  It 
was  when  strangers  came,  or  summer  boarders,  or 
when  the  oldest  girls  grew  up  that  my  sharp  senses 
noted  little  hesitancies  in  public  and  searchings  for 
possible  public  opinion.  Then  I  flamed!  I  lifted  my 
chin  and  strode  off  to  the  mountains,  where  I  viewed 
the  world  at  my  feet  and  strained  my  eyes  across  the 
shadow  of  the  hills. 

I  was  graduated  from  high  school  at  sixteen,  and 
I  talked  of  "  Wendell  Phillips."  This  was  my  first 
sweet  taste  of  the  world's  applause.  There  were 
flowers  and  upturned  faces,  music  and  marching,  and 
there  was  my  mother's  smile.  She  was  lame,  then, 
and  a  bit  drawn,  but  very  happy  *t  was  her  great 
day  and  that  very  year  she  lay  down  with  a  sigh 
of  content  and  has  not  yet  awakened.  I  felt  a  cer 
tain  gladness  to  see  her,  at  last,  at  peace,  for  she  had 
worried  all  her  life.  Of  my  own  loss  I  had  then 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  13 

little  realization.  That  came  only  with  the  after-years. 
Now  it  was  the  choking  gladness  and  solemn  feel  of 
wings!  At  last,  I  was  going  beyond  the  hills  and 
into  the  world  that  beckoned  steadily. 

There  came  a  little  pause, — a  singular  pause.  I 
was  given  to  understand  that  I  was  almost  too  young 
for  the  world.  Harvard  was  the  goal  of  my  dreams, 
but  my  white  friends  hesitated  and  my  colored  friends 
were  silent.  Harvard  was  a  mighty  conjure-word 
in  that  hill  town,  and  even  the  mill  owners'  sons 
had  aimed  lower.  Finally  it  was  tactfully  explained 
that  the  place  for  me  was  in  the  South  among  my 
people.  A  scholarship  had  been  already  arranged  at 
Fisk,  and  my  summer  earnings  would  pay  the  fare. 
My  relatives  grumbled,  but  after  a  twinge  I  felt  a 
strange  delight!  I  forgot,  or  did  not  thoroughly  re 
alize,  the  curious  irony  by  which  I  was  not  looked  upon 
as  a  real  citizen  of  my  birth-town,  with  a  future  and 
a  career,  and  instead  was  being  sent  to  a  far  land 
among  strangers  who  were  regarded  as  (and  in  truth 
were)  "  mine  own  people." 

Ah!  the  wonder  of  that  journey,  with  its  faint  spice 
of  adventure,  as  I  entered  the  land  of  slaves;  the 
never-to-be-forgotten  marvel  of  that  first  supper  at 
Fisk  with  the  world  "  colored  "  and  opposite  two  of 
the  most  beautiful  beings  God  ever  revealed  to  tha 
eyes  of  seventeen.  I  promptly  lost  my  appetite,  but 
I  was  deliriously  happy! 

As  I  peer  back  through  the  shadow  of  my  years, 
seeing  not  too  clearly,  but  through  the  thickening  veil 
of  wish  and  after-thought,  I  seem  to  view  my  life 


14  DARKWATER 

divided  into  four  distinct  parts:  the  Age  of  Miracles, 
the  Days  of  Disillusion,  the  Discipline  of  Work  and 
Play,  and  the  Second  Miracle  Age. 

The  Age  of  Miracles  began  with  Fisk  and  ended 
with  Germany.  I  was  bursting  with  the  joy  of  living. 
I  seemed  to  ride  in  conquering  might.  I  was  captain 
of  my  soul  and  master  of  fate!  I  willed  to  do!  It 
WtS  done.  I  unshed!  The  wish  cr  me  true. 

Now  and  then  out  of  the  void  flashed  the  great 
sword  of  hate  to  remind  me  of  the  battle.  I  remem 
ber  once,  in  Nashville,  brushing  by  accident  against 
a  white  woman  on  the  street.  Politely  and  eagerly 
I  raised  my  hat  to  apologize.  That  was  thirty-five 
years  ago.  From  that  day  to  this  I  have  never  know 
ingly  raised  my  hat  to  a  Southern  white  woman. 

I  suspect  that  beneath  all  of  my  seeming  triumphs 
there  were  many  failures  and  disappointments,  but 
the  realities  loomed  so  large  that  they  swept  away 
even  the  memory  of  other  dreams  and  wishes.  Con* 
sider,  for  a  moment,  how  miraculous  it  all  was  to 
a  boy  of  seventeen,  just  escaped  from  a  narrow  val 
ley:  I  willed  and  lo!  my  people  came  dancing  about 
me, — riotous  in  color,  gay  in  laughter,  full  of  sym 
pathy,  need,  and  pleading;  darkly  delicious  girls — 
"  colored  "  girls — sat  beside  me  and  actxially  talked 
to  me  while  I  gazed  in  tongue-tied  silence  or  babbled 
in  boastful  dreams.  Boys  with  my  own  experiences 
and  out  of  my  own  world,  who  knew  and  understood, 
wrought  out  with  me  great  remedies,  I  studied 
eagerly  under  teachers  who  bent  in  subtle  sympathy, 
feeling  themselves  some  shadow  of  the  Veil  and  lift- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  15 

ing  it  gently  that  we  darker  souls  might  peer  through 
to  other  worlds. 

I  willed  and  lo!  I  was  walking  beneath  the  elms 
of  Harvard, — the  name  of  allurement,  the  college  of 
my  youngest,  wildest  visions!  I  needed  money;  schol 
arships  and  prizes  fell  into  my  lap, — not  all  I  wanted 
or  strove  for,  but  all  I  needed  to  keep  in  school. 
Commencement  came  and  standing  before  governor, 
president,  and  grave,  gowned  men,  I  told  them  cer 
tain  astonishing  truths,  waving  my  arms  and  breath 
ing  fast!  They  applauded  with  what  now  seems  to 
me  uncalled-for  fervor,  but  then!  I  walked  home  on 
pink  clouds  of  glory!  I  asked  for  a  fellowship  and 
got  it.  I  announced  my  plan  of  studying  in  Germany, 
but  Harvard  had  no  more  fellowships  for  me.  A 
friend,  however,  told  me  of  the  Slater  Fund  and  how 
the  Board  was  looking  for  colored  men  worth  edu 
cating.  No  thought  of  modest  hesitation  occurred 
to  me.  I  rushed  at  the  chance. 

The  trustees  of  the  Slater  Fund  excused  themselves 
politely.  They  acknowledged  that  they  had  in  the 
past  looked  for  colored  boys  of  ability  to  educate, 
but,  being  unsuccessful,  they  had  stopped  searching. 
I  went  at  them  hammer  and  tongs !  I  plied  them  with 
testimonials  and  mid-year  and  final  marks.  I  inti 
mated  plainly,  impudently,  that  they  were  "  stalling  " ! 
In  vain  did  the  chairman,  Ex-President  Hayes,  ex 
plain  and  excuse.  I  took  no  excuses  and  brushed  ex 
planations  aside.  I  wonder  now  that  he  did  not  brush 
me  aside,  too,  as  a  conceited  meddler,  but  instead  he 
smiled  and  surrendered. 


1 6  DARKWATER 

I  crossed  the  ocean  in  a  trance.  Always  I  seemed 
to  be  saying,  "It  is  not  real;  I  must  be  dreaming!" 
I  can  live  it  again — the  little,  Dutch  ship — the  blue 
waters — the  smell  of  new-mown  hay — Holland  and 
the  Rhine.  I  saw  the  Wartburg  and  Berlin;  I  made 
the  Harzreise  and  climbed  the  Brocken;  I  saw  the 
Hansa  towns  and  the  cities  and  dorfs  of  South  Ger 
many;  I  saw  the  Alps  at  Berne,  the  Cathedral  at 
Milan,  Florence,  Rome,  Venice,  Vienna,  and  Pesth; 
I  looked  on  the  boundaries  of  Russia;  and  I  sat  in 
Paris  and  London. 

On  mountain  and  valley,  in  home  and  school,  I 
met  men  and  women  as  I  had  never  met  them  before. 
Slowly  they  became,  not  white  folks,  but  folks.  The 
unity  beneath  all  life  clutched  me.  I  was  not  less 
fanatically  a  Negro,  but  "  Negro  "  meant  a  greater, 
broader  sense  of  humanity  and  world-fellowship.  I 
felt  myself  standing,  not  against  the  world,  but  simply 
against  American  narrowness  and  color  prejudice, 
with  the  greater,  finer  world  at  my  back  urging  me  on. 

I  builded  great  castles  in  Spain  and  lived  therein. 
I  dreamed  and  loved  and  wandered  and  sang;  then, 
after  two  long  years,  I  dropped  suddenly  back  into 
"  nigger  "-hating  America ! 

My  Days  of  Disillusion  were  not  disappointing 
enough  to  discourage  me.  I  was  still  upheld  by  that 
fund  of  infinite  faith,  although  dimly  about  me  I  saw 
the  shadow  of  disaster.  I  began  to  realize  how  much 
of  what  I  had  called  Will  and  Ability  was  sheer  Luck! 
Suppose  my  good  mother  had  preferred  a  steady  in 
come  from  my  child  labor  rather  than  bank  on  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  17 

precarious  dividend  of  my  higher  training?  Suppose 
that  pompous  old  village  judge,  whose  dignity  we 
often  ruffled  and  whose  apples  we  stole,  had  had  his 
way  and  sent  me  while  a  child  to  a  "  reform  "  school 
to  learn  a  "  trade  "  ?  Suppose  Principal  Hosmer  had 
been  born  with  no  faith  in  "  darkies/'  and  instead 
of  giving  me  Greek  and  Latin  had  taught  me  car 
pentry  and  the  making  of  tin  pans?  Suppose  I  had 
missed  a  Harvard  scholarship?  Suppose  the  Slater 
Board  had  then,  as  now,  distinct  ideas  as  to  where 
the  education  of  Negroes  should  stop?  Suppose  and 
suppose!  As  I  sat  down  calmly  on  flat  earth  and 
looked  at  my  life  a  certain  great  fear  seized  me. 
Was  I  the  masterful  captain  or  the  pawn  of  laughing 
sprites?  Who  was  I  to  fight  a  world  of  color  preju 
dice?  I  raise  my  hat  to  myself  when  I  remember 
that,  even  with  these  thoughts,  I  did  not  hesitate  or 
waver;  but  just  went  doggedly  to  work,  and  therein 
lay  whatever  salvation  I  have  achieved. 

First  came  the  task  of  earning  a  living.  I  was 
not  nice  or  hard  to  please.  I  just  got  down  on  my 
knees  and  begged  for  work,  anything  and  anywhere. 
I  wrote  to  Hampton,  Tuskegee,  and  a  dozen  other 
places.  They  politely  declined,  with  many  regrets. 
The  trustees  of  a  backwoods  Tennessee  town  consid 
ered  me,  but  were  eventually  afraid.  Then,  suddenly, 
Wilber force  offered  to  let  me  teach  Latin  and  Greek 
at  $750  a  year.  I  was  overjoyed! 

I  did  not  know  anything  about  Latin  and  Greek, 
but  I  did  know  of  Wilberforce.  The  breath  of  that 
great  name  had  swept  the  water  and  dropped  into 


1 8  DARKWATER 

southern  Ohio,  where  Southerners  had  taken  their 
cure  at  Tawawa  Springs  and  where  white  Methodists 
had  planted  a  school;  then  came  the  little  bishop, 
Daniel  Payne,  who  made  it  a  school  of  the  African 
Methodists.  This  was  the  school  that  called  me,  and 
when  re-considered  offers  from  Tuskegee  and  Jeffer 
son  City  followed,  I  refused;  I  was  so  thankful  for 
that  first  offer. 

I  went  to  Wilberforce  with  high  ideals.  I  wanted 
to  help  to  build  a  great  university.  I  was  willing  to 
work  night  as  well  as  day.  I  taught  Latin,  Greek, 
English,  and  German.  I  helped  in  the  discipline,  took 
part  in  the  social  life,  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
lecture  on  sociology,  and  began  to  write  books.  But 
I  found  myself  against  a  stone  wall.  Nothing  stirred 
before  my  impatient  pounding!  Or  if  it  stirred,  it 
soon  slept  again. 

Of  course,  I  was  too  impatient !  The  snarl  of  years 
was  not  to  be  undone  in  days.  I  set  at  solving  the 
problem  before  I  knew  it.  Wilberforce  was  a  colored 
church-school.  In  it  were  mingled  the  problems  of 
poorly-prepared  pupils,  an  inadequately-equipped 
plant,  the  natural  politics  of  bishoprics,  and  the  pro 
vincial  reactions  of  a  country  town  loaded  with  tradi 
tions.  It  was  my  first  introduction  to  a  Negro  world, 
and  I  was  at  once  marvelously  inspired  and  deeply 
depressed.  I  was  inspired  with  the  children, — had  I 
not  rubbed  against  the  children  of  the  world  and  did 
I  not  find  here  the  same  eagerness,  the  same  joy  of 
life,  the  same  brains  as  in  New  England,  France,  and 
Germany?  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  ropes  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  19 

myths  and  knots  and  hindrances;  the  thundering 
waves  of  the  white  world  beyond  beating  us  back; 
the  scalding  breakers  of  this  inner  world, — its  currents 
and  back  eddies — its  meanness  and  smallness — its  sor 
row  and  tragedy — its  screaming  farce ! 

In  all  this  I  was  as  one  bound  hand  and  foot. 
Struggle,  work,  fight  as  I  would,  I  seemed  to  get 
nowhere  and  accomplish  nothing.  I  had  all  the  wild 
intolerance  of  youth,  and  no  experience  in  human 
tangles.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  realized  that 
there  were  limits  to  my  will  to  do.  The  Day  of 
Miracles  was  past,  and  a  long,  gray  road  of  dogged 
work  lay  ahead. 

I  had,  naturally,  my  triumphs  here  and  there.  I 
defied  the  bishops  in  the  matter  of  public  extempora 
neous  prayer  and  they  yielded.  I  bearded  the  poor, 
hunted  president  in  his  den,  and  yet  was  re-elected  to 
my  position.  I  was  slowly  winning  a  way,  but  quickly 
losing  faith  in  the  value  of  the  way  won.  Was  this 
the  place  to  begin  my  life  work?  Was  this  the  work 
which  I  was  best  fitted  to  do?  What  business  had 
I,  anyhow,  to  teach  Greek  when  I  had  studied  men? 
I  grew  sure  that  I  had  made  a  mistake.  So  I  de 
termined  to  leave  Wilberforce  and  try  elsewhere. 
Thus,  the  third  period  of  my  life  began. 

First,  in  1896,  I  married — a  slip  of  a  girl,  beauti 
fully  dark-eyed  and  thorough  and  good  as  a  German 
housewife.  Then  I  accepted  a  job  to  make  a  study 
of  Negroes  in  Philadelphia  for  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania, — one  year  at  six  hundred  dollars.  How 
did  I  dare  these  two  things?  I  do  not  know.  Yet 


20  DARKWATER 

they  spelled  salvation.  To  remain  at  Wilberforce 
without  doing  my  ideals  meant  spiritual  death.  Both 
my  wife  and  I  were  homeless.  I  dared  a  home  and 
a  temporary  job.  But  it  was  a  different  daring  from 
the  days  of  my  first  youth.  I  was  ready  to  admit 
that  the  best  of  men  might  fail.  I  meant  still  to  be 
captain  of  my  soul,  but  I  realized  that  even  captains 
are  not  omnipotent  in  uncharted  and  angry  seas. 

I  essayed  a  thorough  piece  of  work  in  Philadelphia. 
I  labored  morning,  noon,  and  night.  Nobody  ever 
reads  that  fat  volume  on  "  The  Philadelphia  Negro,'! 
but  they  treat  it  with  respect,  and  that  consoles  me. 
The  colored  people  of  Philadelphia  received  me  with 
no  open  arms.  They  had  a  natural  dislike  to  being 
studied  like  a  strange  species.  I  met  again  and  in 
different  guise  those  curious  cross-currents  and  inner 
social  whirlings  of  my  own  people.  They  set  me  to 
groping.  I  concluded  that  I  did  not  know  so  much 
as  I  might  about  my  own  people,  and  when  President 
Bumstead  invited  me  to  Atlanta  University  the  next 
year  to  teach  sociology  and  study  the  American  Negro, 
I  accepted  gladly,  at  a  salary  of  twelve  hundred  dol 
lars. 

My  real  life  work  was  done  at  Atlanta  for  thirteen 
years,  from  my  twenty-ninth  to  my  forty-second  birth 
day.  They  were  years  of  great  spiritual  upturning, 
of  the  making  and  unmaking  of  ideals,  of  hard  work 
and  hard  play.  Here  I  found  myself.  I  lost  most 
of  my  mannerisms.  I  grew  more  broadly  human, 
made  my  closest  and  most  holy  friendships,  and 
studied  human  beings.  I  became  widely-acquainted 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  21 

with  the  real  condition  of  my  people.  I  realized  the 
terrific  odds  which  faced  them.  At  Wilberforce  I 
was  their  captious  critic.  In  Philadelphia  I  was  their 
cold  and  scientific  iflTestigator,  with  microscope  and 
probe.  It  took  but  a  few  years  of  Atlanta  to  bring 
me  to  hot  and  indignant  defense.  I  saw  the  race 
hatred  of  the  whites  as  I  had  never  dreamed  of  it 
before, — naked  and  unashamed!  The  faint  discrimi 
nation  of  my  hopes  and  intangible  dislikes  paled  into 
nothing  before  this  great,  red  monster  of  cruel  oppres 
sion.  I  held  back  with  more  difficulty  each  day  my 
mounting  indignation  against  injustice  and  misrepre 
sentation. 

With  all  this  came  the  strengthening  and  harden 
ing  of  my  own  character.  The  billows  of  birth,  love, 
and  death  swept  over  me.  I  saw  life  through  all  its 
paradox  and  contradiction  of  streaming  eyes  and  mad 
merriment.  I  emerged  into  full  manhood,  with  the 
ruins  of  some  ideals  about  me,  but  with  others  planted 
above  the  stars;  scarred  and  a  bit  grim,  but  hugging 
to  my  soul  the  divine  gift  of  laughter  and  withal 
determined,  even  unto  stubbornness,  to  fight  the  good 
fight. 

At  last,  forbear  and  waver  as  I  would,  I  faced 
the  great  Decision.  My  life's  last  and  greatest  door 
stood  ajar.  What  with  all  my  dreaming,  studying, 
and  teaching  was  I  going  to  do  in  this  fierce  fight? 
Despite  all  my  youthful  conceit  and  bumptiousness,  I 
found  developed  beneath  it  all  a  reticence  and  new 
fear  of  forwardness,  which  sprang  from  searching 
criticisms  of  motive  and  high  ideals  of  efficiency; 


22  DARKWATER 

but  contrary  to  my  dream  of  racial  solidarity  and 
notwithstanding  my  deep  desire  to  serve  and  follow 
and  think,  rather  than  to  lead  and  inspire  and  de 
cide,  I  found  myself  suddenly  the  leader  of  a  great 
wing  of  people  fighting  against  another  and  greater 
wing. 

Nor  could  any  effort  of  mine  keep  this  fight  from 
sinking  to  the  personal  plane.  Heaven  knows  I  tried. 
That  first  meeting  of  a  knot  of  enthusiasts,  at  Niagara 
Falls,  had  all  the  earnestness  of  self-devotion.  At  the 
second  meeting,  at  Harper's  Ferry,  it  arose  to  the 
solemnity  of  a  holy  crusade  and  yet  without  and  to  the 
cold,  hard  stare  of  the  world  it  seemed  merely  the 
envy  of  fools  against  a  great  man,  Booker  Washing 
ton. 

Of  the  movement  I  was  willy-nilly  leader.  I  hated 
the  role.  For  the  first  time  I  faced  criticism  and 
cared.  Every  ideal  and  habit  of  my  life  was  cruelly 
misjudged.  I  who  had  always  overstriven  to  give 
credit  for  good  work,  who  had  never  consciously 
stooped  to  envy  was  accused  by  honest  colored  people 
of  every  sort  of  small  and  petty  jealousy,  while  white 
people  said  I  was  ashamed  of  my  race  and  wanted 
to  be  white!  And  this  of  me,  whose  one  life  fanati 
cism  had  been  belief  in  my  Negro  blood! 

Away  back  in  the  little  years  of  my  boyhood  I  had 
sold  the  Springfield  Republican  and  written  for  Mr. 
Fortune's  Globe.  I  dreamed  of  being  an  editor  my 
self  some  day.  I  am  an  editor.  In  the  great,  slashing 
days  of  college  life  I  dreamed  of  a  strong  organization 
to  fight  the  battles  of  the  Negro  race.  The  National 


THE  SHADOW  OF  YEARS  23 

Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Colored  People 
is  such  a  body,  and  it  grows  daily.  In  the  dark  days 
at  Wilberforce  I  planned  a  time  when  I  could  speak 
freely  to  my  people  and  of  them,  interpreting  between 
two  worlds.  I  am  speaking  now.  In  the  study  at 
Atlanta  I  grew  to  fear  lest  my  radical  beliefs  should 
so  hurt  the  college  that  either  my  silence  or  the  in 
stitution's  ruin  would  result.  Powers  and  principali 
ties  have  not  yet  curbed  my  tongue  and  Atlanta  still 
lives. 

It  all  came — this  new  Age  of  Miracles — because  a 
few  persons  in  1909  determined  to  celebrate  Lincoln's 
Birthday  properly  by  calling  for  the  final  emancipa 
tion  of  the  American  Negro.  I  came  at  their  call. 
My  salary  even  for  a  year  was  not  assured,  but  it 
was  the  "  Voice  without  reply."  The  result  has  been 
the  National  Association  for  the  Advancement  of 
Colored  People  and  The  Crisis  and  this  book,  which 
I  am  finishing  on  my  Fiftieth  Birthday. 

Last  year  I  looked  death  in  the  face  and  found 
its  lineaments  not  unkind.  But  it  was  not  my  time. 
Yet  in  nature  some  time  soon  and  in  the  fullness  of 
days  I  shall  die,  quietly,  I  trust,  with  my  face  turned 
South  and  eastward;  and,  dreaming  or  dreamless,  I 
shall,  I  am  sure,  enjoy  death  as  I  have  enjoyed  life. 


A  Litany  at  Atlanta 

O  Silent  God,  Thou  whose  voice  afar  in  mist  and 
mystery  hath  left  our  ears  an-hungered  in  these  fearful 
days — 

Hear  us,  good  Lord! 

Listen  to  us,  Thy  children :  our  faces  dark  with  doubt 
are  made  a  mockery  in  Thy  Sanctuary.     With  uplifted 
hands  we  front  Thy  Heaven,  O  God,  crying: 
We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord! 
We  are  not  better  than  our  fellows,  Lord ;  we  are  but 
weak  and  human  men.     When  our  devils  do  deviltry, 
curse  Thou  the  doer  and  the  deed, — curse  them  as  we 
curse  them,  do  to  them  all  and  more  than  ever  they  have 
done  to  innocence  and  weakness,   to   womanhood   and 
home. 

Have  mercy  upon  us,  miserable  sinner  si 
And  yet,  whose  is  the  deeper  guilt?  Who  made  these 
devils?  Who  nursed  them  in  crime  and  fed  them  on 
injustice?  Who  ravished  and  debauched  their  mothers 
and  their  grandmothers?  Who  bought  and  sold  their 
crime  and  waxed  fat  and  rich  on  public  iniquity? 

Thou  knowest,  good  God! 

Is  this  Thy  Justice,  O  Father,  that  guile  be  easier  than 
innocence  and  the  innocent  be  crucified  for  the  guilt  of 
the  untouched  guilty? 

Justice,  O  Judge  of  men! 

Wherefore  do  we  pray?  Is  not  the  God  of  the  Fathers 
dead?  Have  not  seers  seen  in  Heaven's  halls  Thine 
hearsed  and  lifeless  form  stark  amidst  the  black  and 
rolling  smoke  of  sin,  where  all  along  bow  bitter  forms 
of  endless  dead? 

Awake,  Thou  that  sleepest! 
25 


26  DARKWATER 

Thou  art  not  dead,  but  flown  afar,  up  hills  of  endless 
light,  through  blazing  corridors  of  suns,  where  worlds 
do  swing  of  good  and  gentle  men,  of  women  strong  and 
free — far  from  the  cozenage,  black  hypocrisy,  and  chaste 
prostitution  of  this  shameful  speck  of  dust! 

Turn  again,  O  Lord;  leave  us  not  to  perish  in  our  sin! 
From  lust  of  body  and  lust  of  blood, — 

Great  God,  deliver  us! 
From  lust  of  power  and  lust  of  gold, — 

Great  God,  deliver  us! 
From  the  leagued  lying  of  despot  and  of  brute/ — 

Great  God,  deliver  us! 

A  city  lay  in  travail,  God  our  Lord,  and  from  her 
loins  sprang  twin  Murder  and  Black  Hate.  Red  was  the 
midnight;  clang,  crack,  and  cry  of  death  and  fury  filled 
the  air  and  trembled  underneath  the  stars  where  church 
spires  pointed  silently  to  Thee.  And  all  this  was  to 
sate  the  greed  of  greedy  men  who  hide  behind  the  veil 
of  vengeance! 

Bend  us  Thine  ear,  O  Lord! 

In  the  pale,  still  morning  we  looked  upon  the  deed. 
We  stopped  our  ears  and  held  our  leaping  hands,  but 
they — did  they  not  wag  their  heads  and  leer  and  cry 
with  bloody  jaws:  Cease  from  Crime!  The  word  was 
mockery,  for  thus  they  train  a  hundred  crimes  while  we 
do  cure  one. 

Turn  again  our  captivity,  O  Lord! 
Behold  this  maimed  and  broken  thing,  dear  God;  it 
was  an  humble  black  man,  who  toiled  and  sweat  to  save^ 
a  bit  from  the  pittance  paid  him.  They  told  him :  Work 
and  Rise!  He  worked.  Did  this  man  sin?  Nay,  but 
someone  told  how  someone  said  another  did — one  whom 
he  had  never  seen  nor  known.  Yet  for  that  man's  crime 
this  man  lieth  maimed  and  murdered,  his  wife  naked  to 
shame,  his  children  to  poverty  and  evil. 

Hear  us,  O  heavenly  Father! 
Doth  not  this  justice  of  hell  stink  in  Thy  nostrils,  O 


A  LITANY  AT  ATLANTA  27 

God?  How  long  shall  the  mounting  flood  of  innocent 
blood  roar  in  Thine  ears  and  pound  in  our  hearts  for 
vengeance?  Pile  the  pale  frenzy  of  blood-crazed  brutes, 
who  do  such  deeds,  high  on  Thine  Altar,  Jehovah  Jireh, 
and  burn  it  in  hell  forever  and  forever! 

Forgive  us,  good  Lord;  we  know  not  what  we  say! 

Bewildered  we  are  and  passion-tossed,  mad  with  the 
madness  of  a  mobbed  and  mocked  and  murdered  people ; 
straining  at  the  armposts  of  Thy  throne,  we  raise  our 
shackled  hands  and  charge  Thee,  God,  by  the  bones  of 
our  stolen  fathers,  by  the  tears  of  our  dead  mothers,  by 
the  very  blood  of  Thy  crucified  Christ:  What  meaneth 
this  ?  Tell  us  the  plan ;  give  us  the  sign ! 
Keep  not  Thou  silent,  O  God! 

Sit  not  longer  blind,  Lord  God,  deaf  to  our  prayer  and 
dumb  to  our  dumb  suffering.     Surely  Thou,  too,   art 
not  white,  O  Lord,  a  pale,  bloodless,  heartless  thing ! 
Ah!  Christ  of  all  the  Pities! 

Forgive  the  thought !  Forgive  these  wild,  blasphemous 
words !  Thou  art  still  the  God  of  our  black  fathers  and 
in  Thy  Soul's  Soul  sit  some  soft  darkenings  of  the 
evening,  some  shadowings  of  the  velvet  night. 

But  whisper — speak — call,  great  God,  for  Thy  silence 
is  white  terror  to  our  hearts!  The  way,  O  God,  show 
us  the  way  and  point  us  the  path! 

Whither  ?    North  is  greed  and  South  is  blood ;  within, 
the  coward,  and  without,  the  liar.    Whither  ?    To  death  ? 
Amen!    Welcome,  dark  sleep! 

Whither?  To  life?  But  not  this  life,  dear  God,  not 
this.  Let  the  cup  pass  from  us,  tempt  us  not  beyond 
our  strength,  for  there  is  that  clamoring  and  clawing 
within,  to  whose  voice  we  would  not  listen,  yet  shudder 
lest  we  must, — and  it  is  red.  Ah !  God !  It  is  a  red  and 
awful  shape. 
Selah! 

In  yonder  East  trembles  a  star. 

Vengeance  is  Mine;  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord! 


28  DARKWATER 

Thy  Will,  O  Lord,  be  done! 

Kyrie  Eleison! 
Lord,  we  have  done  these  pleading,  wavering  words. 

We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord! 
We  bow  our  heads  and  hearken  soft,  to  the  sobbing  of 
women  and  little  children. 

We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord! 
Our  voices  sink  in  silence  and  in  night. 

Hear  us,  good  Lord! 
In  night,  O  God  of  a  godless  land! 

Amen  I 
In  silence,  O  Silent  God. 

Selah! 


II 

THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK 

HIGH  in  the  tower,  where  I  sit  above  the  loud  com 
plaining  of  the  human  sea,  I  know  many  souls  that 
toss  and  whirl  and  pass,  but  none  there  are  that  in 
trigue  me  more  than  the  Souls  ^f_Wbife  JEnlk 

Of  them  I  am  singularijrjdaicyoyant.  I  see  in  and 
through  them.  I  view  them  from  unusual  points  of 
vantage.  Not  as  a  foreigner  do  I  come,  for^I^am 
native,  not  foreignt  fone  of  tfreir  thought  ^nd  flesh 
of  their  language.  Mine  is  not  the  knowledge  of  the 
traveler  or  the  colonial  composite  of  dear  memories, 
words  and  wonder.  Nor  yet  is  my  knowledge  that 
which  servants  have  of  masters,  or  mass  of  class,  or 
capitalist  of  artisan.  Rather  I  see  these  souls  un 
dressed  and  from  the  back  and  side.  I  see  the  working 
of  their  entrails.  I  know  their  thoughts  and  they  know 
that  I  know.  This  knowledge  makes  them  now  em 
barrassed,  now  furious!  They  ikajLjny  righMp  live 
and  be  and^  call_me  misbirth !  My  word  is  to  them 
mere  bitterness  and  my  soul,  pessimism.  And  yet  as 
they  preach  and  strut  and  shout  and  threaten,  crouch 
ing  as  they  clutch  at  rags  of  facts  and  fancies  to 
hide  their  nakedness,  they  go  twisting,  flying  by  my 
tired  eyes  and  I  see  them  ever  stripped, — ugly,  human. 

The  discovery  of  personal  whiteness  among  the 

29 


30  DARKWATER 

world's  peoples  is  a  very  modern  thing, — a  nineteenth 
and  twentieth  century  matter,  indeed.  The  ancient 
world  would  have  laughed  at  such  a  distinction.  The 
Middle  Age  regarded  skin  color  with  mild  curiosity  ; 
and  even  up  into  the  eighteenth  century  we  were 
hammering  our  national  manikins  into  one,  great, 
Universal  Man,  with  fine  frenzy  which  ignored  color 
and  race  even  more  than  birth.  Today  we  have 
changed  all  that,  and  the  world  in  a  sudden,  emo 
tional  conversion  has  discovered  that  it  is  white  and 
by  that  token,  wonderful ! 

This  assumption  that  of  all  the  hues  of  God  white 
ness  alone  is  inherently  and  obviously  better  than 
browmress  or  tan  leads  to  curious  acts ;  even  the  sweeter 
souls  of  the  dominant  world  as  they  discourse  with 
me  on  weather,  weal,  and  woe  are  continually  playing 
above  their  actual  words  an  obligate  of  tune  and  tone, 
saying: 

"  My  poor,  un-white  thing !  Weep  not  nor  rage. 
I  know,  too  well,  that  the  curse  of  God  lies  heavy 
on  you.  Why?  That  is  not  for  me  to  say,  but  be 
brave!  Do  your  work  in  your  lowly  sphere,  praying 
the  good  Lord  that  into  heaven  above,  where  all  is 
love,  you  may,  one  day,  be  born — white ! " 

I  do  not  laugh.  I  am  quite  straight-faced  as  I  ask 
soberly : 

"  But  what  on  earth  is  whitene$s_iiiat  one  should 
so. desire  it?"  Then  always,  somehow,  some  way, 
silently  but  clearly,  I  am  given  to  understand  that 
whiteness  is  the  ownership  of  the  earth  forever  and 
ever,  Atnen! 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  31 

Now  what  is  the  effect  on  a  man  or  a  nation  when 
it  comes  passionately  to  believe  such  an  extraordinary 
dictum  as  this?  That  nations  are  coming  to  believe 
it  is  manifest  daily.  Wave  on  wave,  each  with  in 
creasing  virulence,  is  dashing  this  new  religion  of 
whiteness  on  the  shores  of  our  time.  Its  first  effects 
are  funny :  the  strut  of  the  Southerner,  the  arrogance 
of  the  Englishman  amuck,  the  whoop  of  the  hoodlum 
who  vicariously  leads  your  mob.  Next  it  appears 
dampening  generous  enthusiasm  in  what  we  once 
counted  glorious;  to  free  the  slave  is  discovered  to  be 
tolerable  only  in  so  far  as  it  freed  his  master!  Do 
we  sense  somnolent  writhings  in  black  Africa  or  angry 
groans  in  India  or  triumphant  banzais  in  Japan  ?  "  To 
your  tents,  O  Israel! "  These  nations  are  not  white! 

After  the  more  comic  manifestations  and  the  chill 
ing  of  generous  enthusiasm  come  subtler,  darker  deeds. 
Everything  considered,  the  title  to  the  universe  claimed 
by  White  Folk  is  faulty.  It  ought,  at  least,  to  look 
plausible.  How  easy,  then,  byjemj^asis^jadjomission 
to  make  children  believe  that  every  great  soul  the 
world  ever  saw  was  a  wliite. man's  soul;  that  every 
great  thought  the  world  ever  knew  was  a  white  man's 
thought;  that  every  great  deed  the  world  ever  did 
was  a  white  man's  deed;  that  every  great  dream  the 
world  ever  sang  was  a  white  man's  dream.  In  fine, 
that  if  from  the  world  were  dropped  everything  that 
could  not  fairly  be  attributed  to  White  Folk,  the 
world  would,  if  anything,  be  even  greater,  truer,  bet 
ter  than  now.  And  if  all  this  be  a  lie,  is  it  not  a  lie 
in  a  great  cause? 


32  DARKWATER 

Here  it  is  that  the  comedy  verges  to  tragedy.  The 
first  minor  note  is  struck,  all  unconsciously,  by  those 
worthy  souls  in  whom  consciousness  of  high  descent 
brings  burning  desire  to  spread  the  gift  abroad, — 
the  obligation  of  nobility  to  the  ignoble.  Such  sense 
of  duty  assumes  two  things:  a  real  possession  of  the 
heritage  and  its  frank  appreciation  by  the  humble-born. 
So  long,  then,  as  humble  black  folk,  voluble  with 
thanks,  receive  barrels  of  old  clothes  from  lordly  and 
generous  whites,  there  is  much  mental  peace  and 
moral  satisfaction.  But  when  the  black  man  begins 
to  dispute  the  white  man's  title  to  certain  alleged 
bequests  of  the  Fathers  in  wage  and  position,  author 
ity  and  training;  and  when  his  attitude  toward  charity 
is  sullen  anger  rather  than  humble  jollity;  when  he 
insists  on  his  human  right  to  swagger  and  swear 
and  waste,— then  the  spell  is  suddenly  broken  and  the 
philanthropist  is  ready  to  believe  that  Negroes  are  im 
pudent,  that  the  South  is  right,  and  that  Japan  wants 
to  fight  America. 

After  this  the  descent  to  Hell  is  easy.  On  the  pale, 
white  faces  which  the  great  billows  whirl  upward 
to  my  tower  I  see  again  and  again,  often  and  still 
more  often,  a  writing  of  human  hatred,  a  deep  and 
passionate  hatred,  vast  by  the  very  vagueness  of  its 
expressions.  Down  through  the  green  waters,  on  the 
bottom  of  the  world,  where  men  move  to  and  fro, 
I  have,  seen  a  man — an  educated  gentleman — grow 
livid  with  anger  because  a  little,  silent,  black  woman 
was  sitting  by  herself  in  a  Pullman  car.  He  was  a 
white  man.  I  have  seen  a  great,  grown  man  curse 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  33 

a  little  child,  who  had  wandered  into  the  wrong  wait 
ing-room,  searching  for  its  mother :  "  Here,  you 

damned  black He  was  white.  In  Central  Park 

I  have  seen  the  upper  lip  of  a  quiet,  peaceful  man 
curl  back  in  a  tigerish  snarl  of  rage  because  black 
folk  rode  by  in  a  motor  car.  He  was  a  white  man. 
We  have  seen,  you  and  I,  city  after  city  drunk  and 
furious  with  ungovernable  lust  of  blood;  mad  with 
murder,  destroying,  killing,  and  cursing;  torturing 
human  victims  because  somebody  accused  of  crime 
happened  to  be  of  the  same  color  as  the  mob's  inno 
cent  victims  and  because  that  color  was  not  white! 
We  have  seen, — Merciful  God!  in  these  wild  days 
and  in  the  name  of  Civilization,  Justice,  and  Mother 
hood, — what  have  we  not  seen,  right  here  in  America, 
of  orgy,  cruelty,  barbarism,  and  murder  done  to  men 
and  women  of  Negro  descent. 

Up  through  the  foam  of  green  and  weltering  waters 
wells  this  great  mass  of  hatred,  in  wilder,  fiercer  vio 
lence,  until  I  look  down  and  know  that  today  to  the 
millions  of  my  people  no  misfortune  could  happen, — 
of  death  and  pestilence,  failure  and  defeat — that 
would  not  make  the  hearts  of  millions  of  their  fel 
lows  beat  with  fierce,  vindictive  joy!  Do  you  doubt 
it?  Ask  your  own  soul  what  it  would  say  if  the  next 
census  were  to  report  that  half  of  black  America  was 
dead  and  the  other  half  dying. 

Unfortunate  ?  Unfortunate.  But  where  is  the  mis 
fortune?  Mine?  Am  I,  in  my  blackness,  the  sole 
sufferer?  I  suffer.  And  yet,  somehow,  above  the 
suffering,  above  the  shackled  anger  that  beats  the 


34  DARKWATER 

bars,  above  the  hurt  that  crazes  there  surges  in  me 
a  vast  pity,  —  pity  for  a  people  imprisoned  and  en 
thralled,  hampered  and  made  miserable  for  such  a 
cause,  for  such  a  phantasy! 

Conceive  this  nation,  of  all  human  peoples,  engaged 
in  a  crusade  to  make  the  "  World  Safe  for  Democ 
racy  "  !  Can  you  imagine  the  United  States  protest 
ing  against  Turkish  atrocities  in  Armenia,  while  the 
Turks  are  silent  about  mobs  in  Chicago  and  St.  Louis; 
what  is  Louvain  compared  with  Memphis,  Waco, 
Washington,  Dyersburg,  and  Estill  Springs?  In 
short,  what  is  the  black  man  but  America's  Belgium, 
and  how  could  America  condemn  in  Germany  that 
which  she  commits,  just  as  brutally,  within  her  own 
borders  ? 

A  true  and  worthy  ideal  frees  and  uplifts  a  people; 
a  false  ideal  imprisons  and  lowers.  Say  to  men, 
earnestly  and  repeatedly  :  "  Honesty  is  best,  knowl 
edge  is  power;  do  unto  others  as  you  would  be  done 
by."  Say  this  and  act  it  and  the  nation  must  move 
toward  it,  if  not  to  it.  But  say  to  a  people:  "The 
one  virtue  sobewhite,"  and  the 


inevitable  conclusion,  "JCill  the^nigger  '  !  " 

Is  not  this  the  record  of  present  America?  Is  not 
this  its  headlong  progress  ?  Are  we  not  coming  more 
and  more,  day  by  day,  to  making  the  statement  "  I 
am  white,"  the  one  fundamental  tenet  of  our  practical 
morality?  Only  when  this  basic,  iron  rule  is  involved 
is  our  defense  of  right  nation-wide  and  prompt.  Mur 
der  may  swagger,  theft  may  rule  and  prostitution  may 
flourish  and  the  nation  gives  but  spasmodic,  inter- 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  35 

mittent  and  lukewarm  attention.  But  let  the  murderer 
be  black  or  the  thief  brown  or  the  violator  of  woman 
hood  have  a  drop  of  Negro  blood,  and  the  righteous 
ness  of  the  indignation  sweeps  the  world.  Nor  would 
this  fact  make  the  indignation  less  justifiable  did  not 
we  all  know  that  it  was  blackness  that  was  condemned 
and  not  crime. 

In  the  awful  cataclysm  of  World  War,  where  from 
beating,  slandering,  and  murdering  us  the  white  world 
turned  temporarily  aside  to  kill  each  other,  we  of  the 
Darker  Peoples  looked  on  in  mild  amaze. 

Among  some  of  us,  I  doubt  not,  this  sudden  de 
scent  of  Europe  into  hell  brought  unbounded  sur 
prise;  to  others,  over  wide  area,  it  brought  the 
Schaden  Freude  of  the  bitterly  hurt;  but  most  of  us, 
I  judge,  looked  on  silently  and  sorrowfully,  in  sober 
thought,  seeing  sadly  the  prophecy  of  our  own  souls. 

Here  is  a  civilization  that  has  boasted  much. 
Neither  Roman  nor  Arab,  Greek  nor  Egyptian,  Per 
sian  nor  Mongol  ever  took  himself  and  his  own  per- 
fectness  with  such  disconcerting  seriousness  as  the 
modern^  white  man.  We  whose  shame,  humiliation, 
ancTTIeep  insult  his  aggrandizement  so  often  involved 
were  never  deceived.  We  looked  at  him  clearly,  jfcith 
world-old  eyes,  and  saw  simply  a  human  thing,  weak 
and  pi<jgj]J2  a"^~rri1^  pvpn  ag  WP  jarg  fmfl  wereT 

These  super-men  and  world-mastering  demi-gods 
listened,  however,  to  no  low  tongues  of  ours,  even 
when  we  pointed  silently  to  their  feet  of  clay.  Per 
haps  we,  as  folk  of  simpler  soul  and  more  primitive 
type,  have  been  most  struck  in  the  welter  of  recent 


36  DARKWATER 

years  by  the  utter  failure  of  white  religion.  We  have 
curled  our  lips  in  something  like  contempt  as  we  have 
witnessed  glib  apology  and  weary  explanation.  Noth 
ing  of  the  sort  deceived  us.  A  nation's  religion  is  its 
life,  and  as  such  white  Christianity  is  a  miserable 
failure. 

Nor  would  we  be  unfair  in  this  criticism :  We  know 
that  we,  too,  have  failed,  as  you  have,  and  have  re 
jected  many  a  Buddha,  even  as  you  have  denied 
Christ;  but  we  acknowledge  our  human  frailty,  while 
you,  claiming  super-humanity,  scoff  endlessly  at  our 
shortcomings. 

The  number  of  white  individuals  who  are  practising 
with  even  reasonable  approximation  the  democracy 
and  unselfishness  of  Jesus  Christ  is  so  small  and  un 
important  as  to  be  fit  subject  for  jest  in  Sunday  sup 
plements  and  in  Punch,  Life,  Le  Rire,  and  Fliegende 
Blatter.  In  her  foreign  mission  work  the  extraordi 
nary  self-deception  of  white  religion  is  epitomized : 
solemnly  the  white  world  sends  five  million  dollars 
worth  of  missionary  propaganda  to  Africa  each  year 
and  in  the  same  twelve  months  adds  twenty-five  mil 
lion  dollars  worth  of  the  vilest  gin  manufactured. 
'Peace  to  the  augurs  of  Rome! 

We  may,  however,  grant  without  argument  that 
religious  ideals  have  always  far  outrun  their  very 
human  devotees.  Let  us,  then,  turn  to  more  mundane 
matters  of  honor  and  fairness.  The  world  today  is 
trade.  The  world  has  turned  shopkeeper;  history  is 
economic  history;  living  is  earning  a  living.  Is  it 
necessary  to  ask  how  much  of  high  emprise  and  hon- 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  37 

orable  conduct  has  been  found  here?  Something,  to 
be  sure.  The  establishment  of  world  credit  systems 
is  built  on  splendid  and  realizable  faith  in  fellow-men. 
But  it  is,  after  all,  so  low  and  elementary  a  step  that 
sometimes  it  looks  merely  like  honor  among  thieves, 
for  the  revelations  of  highway  robbery  and  low  cheat 
ing  in  the  business  world  and  in  all  its  great  modern 
centers  have  raised  in  the  hearts  of  all  true  men  in  our 
day  an  exceeding  great  cry  for  revolution  in  our  basic 
methods  and  conceptions  of  industry  and  commerce. 

We  do  not,  for  a  moment,  forget  the  robbery  of 
other  times  and  races  when  trade  was  a  most  uncer 
tain  gamble;  but  was  there  not  a  certain  honesty  and 
frankness  in  the  evil  that  argued  a  saner  morality? 
There  are  more  merchants  today,  surer  deliveries,  and 
wider  well-being,  but  are  there  not,  also,  bigger  thieves, 
deeper  injustice,  and  more  calloused  selfishness  in 
well-being?  Be  that  as  it  may, — certainly  the  nicer 
sense  of  honor  that  has  risen  ever  and  again  in  groups 
of  forward-thinking  men  has  been  curiously  and 
broadly  blunted.  Consider  our  chiefest  industry, — 
fighting.  Laboriously  the  Middle  Ages  built  its  rules 
of  fairness — equal  armament,  equal  notice,  equal  con 
ditions.  What  do  we  see  today?  Machine-guns 
against  assegais;  conquest  sugared  with  religion;  mu-  *n 
tilation  and  rape  masquerading  as  culture, — all  this, 
with  vast  applause  at  the  superiority  of  white  over 
black  soldiers! 

War  is  horrible!  This  the  dark  world  knows  to 
its  awful  cost.  But  has  it  just  become  horrible,  in 
these  last  days,  when  under  essentially  equal  condi- 


38  DARKWATER 

tions,  equal  armament,  and  equal  waste  of  wealth 
white  men  are  fighting  white  men,  with  surgeons  and 
nurses  hovering  near? 

Think  of  the  wars  through  which  we  have  lived 
in  the  last  decade:  in  German  Africa,  in  British 
Nigeria,  in  French  and  Spanish  Morocco,  in  China, 
in  Persia,  in  the  Balkans,  in  Tripoli,  in  Mexico,  and 
in  a  dozen  lesser  places — were  not  these  horrible,  too  ? 
Mind  you,  there  were  for  most  of  these  wars  no  Red 
Cross  funds. 

Behold  little  Belgium  and  her  pitiable  plight,  but 
has  the  world  forgotten  Congo  ?  What  Belgium  now 
suffers  is  not  half,  not  even  a  tenth,  of  what  she  has 
done  to  black  Congo  since  Stanley's  great  dream  of 
1880.  Down  the  dark  forests  of  inmost  Africa  sailed 
this  modern  Sir  Galahad,  in  the  name  of  "  the  noble- 
minded  men  of  several  nations,"  to  introduce  com 
merce  and  civilization.  What  came  of  it?  "Rubber 
and  murder,  slavery  in  its  worst  form,"  wrote  Glave 
in  1895. 

Harris  declares  that  King  Leopold's  regime  meant 
the  death  of  twelve  million  natives,  "  but  what  we 
who  were  behind  the  scenes  felt  most  keenly  was 
the  fact  that  the  real  catastrophe  in  the  Congo  was 
desolation  and  murder  in  the  larger  sense.  The  in 
vasion  of  family  life,  the  ruthless  destruction  of  every 
social  barrier,  the  shattering  of  every  tribal  law,  the 
introduction  of  criminal  practices  which  struck  the 
chiefs  of  the  people  dumb  with  horror — in  a  word, 
a  veritable  avalanche  of  filth  and  immorality  over 
whelmed  the  Congo  tribes." 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  39 

Yet  the  fields  of  Belgium  laughed,  the  cities  were 
gay,  art  and  science  flourished;  the  groans  that  helped 
to  nourish  this  civilization  fell  on  deaf  ears  because 
the  world  round  about  was  doing  the  same  sort  of 
thing  elsewhere  on  its  own  account. 

As  we  saw  the  dead  dimly  through  rifts  of  battle- 
smoke  and  heard  faintly  the  cursings  and  accusations 
of  blood  brothers,  we  darker  men  said :  This  is  not 
Europe  gone  mad;  this  is  not  aberration  nor  insanity; 
this  "is'  EuT6peyiHs^emm£ 

of  white  culture — back  of  all  culture, — stripped  and 
jyisible  today.  This  is  where  the  world  has  arrived, 
— these  dark  and  awful  depths  and  not  the  shining 
and  ineffable  heights  of  which  it  boasted.  Here  is 
whither  the  might  and  energy  of  modern  humanity 
has  really  gone. 

But  may  not  the  world  cry  back  at  us  and  ask: 
"  What  better  thing  have  you  to  show  ?  What  have 
you  done  or  would  do  better  than  this  if  you  had 
today  the  world  rule?  Paint  with  all  riot  of  hateful 
colors  the  thin  skin  of  European  culture, — is  it  not 
better  than  any  culture  that  arose  in  Africa  or  Asia  ?  " 

It  is.  Of  this  there  is  no  doubt  and  never  has  been; 
but  why  is  it  better?  Is  it  better  because  Europeans 
are  better,  nobler,  greater,  and  more  gifted  than  other 
folk?  It  is  not.  Europe  has  never  produced  and 
never  will  in  our  day  bring  forth  a  single  human  soul 
who  cannot  be  matched  and  over-matched  in  every 
line  of  human  endeavor  by  Asia  and  Africa.  Run 
the  gamut,  if  you  will,  and  let  us  have  the  Europeans 
who  in  sober  truth  over-match  Nefertari,  Mohammed, 


40  DARKWATER 

Rameses  and  Askia,  Confucius,  Buddha,  and  Jesus 
Christ.  If  we  could  scan  the  calendar  of  thousands 
of  lesser  men,  in  like  comparison,  the  result  would 
be  the  same;  but  we  cannot  do  this  because  of  the 
deliberately  educated  ignorance  of  white  schools  by 
which  they  remember  Napoleon  and  forget  Sonni  Ali. 

The  greatness  of  Europe  has  lain  in  the  width  of 
the  stage  on  which  she  has  played  her  part,  the 
strength  of  the  foundations  on  which  she  has  builded, 
and  a  natural,  human  ability  no  whit  greater  (if  as 
great)  than  that  of  other  days  and  races.  In  other 
words,  the  deeper  reasons  for  the  triumph  of  Euro 
pean  civilization  lie  quite  outside  and  beyond  Europe, 
— back  in  the  universal  struggles  of  all  mankind. 

Why,  then,  is  Europe  great?  Because  of  the  foun 
dations  which  the  mighty  past  have  furnished  her  to 
build  upon:  the  iron  trade  of  ancient,  black  Africa, 
the  religion  and  empire-building  of  yellow  Asia,  the 
art  and  science  of  the  "  dago  "  Mediterranean  shore, 
east,  south,  and  west,  as  well  as  north.  And  where 
she  has  builded  securely  upon  this  great  past  and 
learned  from  it  she  has  gone  forward  to  greater  and 
more  splendid  human  triumph ;  but  where  she  has  ig 
nored  this  past  and  forgotten  and  sneered  at  it,  she 
has  shown  the  cloven  hoof  of  poor,  crucified  human 
ity, — she  has  played,  like  other  empires  gone,  the 
world  fool! 

If,  then,  European  triumphs  in  culture  have  been 
greater,  so,  too,  may  her  failures  have  been  greater. 
How  great  a  failure  and  a  failure  in  what  does  the 
World  War  betoken?  Was  it  national  jealousy  of 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  41 

the  sort  of  the  seventeenth  century?  But  Europe  has 
done  more  to  break  down  national  barriers  than  any 
preceding  culture.  Was  it  fear  of  the  balance  of 
power  in  Europe?  Hardly,  save  in  the  half -Asiatic 
problems  of  the  Balkans.  What,  then,  does  Haupt- 
mann  mean  when  he  says:  "Our  jealous  enemies 
forged  an  iron  ring  about  our  breasts  and  we  knew 
our  breasts  had  to  expand, — that  we  had  to  split 
asunder  this  ring  or  else  we  had  to  cease  breathing. 
But  Germany  will  not  cease  to  breathe  and  so  it  came 
to  pass  that  the  iron  ring  was  forced  apart." 

Whither  is  this  expansion?  What  is  that  breath 
of  life,  thought  to  be  so  indispensable  to  a  great  Euro 
pean  nation?  Manifestly  it  is  expansion  overseas;  it 
is  colonial  aggrandizement  which  explains,  and  alone 
adequately  explains,  the  World  War.  How  many  of 
us  today  fully  realize  the  current  theory  of  colonial* 
expansion,  of  the  relation  of  Europe  which  is  white, 
to  the  world  which -is  black  and  brown  and  yellow? 
Bluntly  put,  that  theory  is  this:  It  is  the  duty  of  white 
Europe  to  divide  up  the  darker  world  and  administer 
it  for  Europe's  good. 

This  Europe  has  largely  done.  The  European 
world  is  using  black  and  brown  men  for  all  the  uses 
which  men  know.  Slowly  but  surely  white  culture 
is  evolving  the  theory  that  "  darkies  "  are  born  beasts 
of  burden  for  white  folk.  It  were  silly  to  think  other 
wise,  cries  the  cultured  world,  with  stronger  and 
shriller  accord.  The  supporting  arguments  grow  and 
twist  themselves  in  the  mouths  of  merchant,  scientist, 
soldier,  traveler,  writer,  and  missionary:  Darker _pep- 


42  DARKWATER 

pies  are  dark  in  mind  as  well  as  in  body^  of  dark,  un 
certain,  and  imperfect  descent;  of  frailer,  cheaper 
stuff;  they  are  cowards  in  the  face  of  mausers  and 
maxims;  they  have  no  feelings,  aspirations,  and  loves; 
they  are  fools,  illogical  idiots,-—"  half-devil  and  half- 
child." 

Such  as  they  are  civilization  must,  naturally,  raise 
them,  but  soberly  and  in  limited  ways.  They  are 
not  simply  dark  white  men.  They  are  not  "  men  " 
in  the  sense  that  Europeans  are  men.  To  the  very 
limited  extent  of  their  shallow  capacities  lift  them 
to  be  useful  to  whites,  to  raise  cotton,  gather  rubber, 
fetch  ivory,  dig  diamonds,  —  and  let  them  be  paid 
what  men  think  they  are  worth  —  white  men  who  know 
them  to  be  well-nigh  worthless. 

Such  degrading  of  men  by  men  is  as  old  as  mankind 
and  the  invention  of  no  one  race  or  people.  Ever 
have  men  striven  to  conceive  of  their  victims  as  differ 
ent  from  the  victors,  endlessly  different,  in  soul  and 
blood,  strength  and  cunning,  race  and  lineage.  It 
has  been  left,  however,  to  Europe  and  to  modern  days 
to  discover  the  eternal  world-wide  mark  of  meanness, 
:  —  color  ! 

Such  is  the  silent  revolution  that  has  gripped  mod 


ern  European  culture  in  the  later  nineteenth  and 
tieth  centuries.  Its  zenith  came  in  Boxer  times  :  White 
supremacy  was  all  but  world-wide,  Africa  was  dead, 
India  conquered,  Japan  isolated,  and  China  prostrate, 
while  white  America  whetted  her  sword  for  mongrel 
Mexico  and  mulatto  South  America,  lynching  her  own 
Negroes  the  while.  Temporary  halt  in  this  program 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  43 

was  made  by  little  Japan  and  the  white  world  imme 
diately  sensed  the  peril  of  such  "  yellow  "  presump 
tion!  What  sort  of  a  world  would  this  be  if  yellow 
men  must  be  treated  "  white "  ?  Immediately  the 
eventual  overthrow  of  Japan  became  a  subject  of  deep 
thought  and  intrigue,  from  St.  Petersburg  to  San 
Francisco,  from  the  Key  of  Heaven  to  the  Little 
Brother  of  the  Poor. 

The  using  of  men  for  the  benefit  of  masters  is  no 
new  invention  of  modern  Europe.  It  is  quite  as  old 
as  the  world.  But  Europe  proposed  to  .apply  it  on 
a  scale  and  with  an  elaborateness  of  detail  of  which  no 
former  world  ever  dreamed.  The  imperial  width  of 
the  thing, — the  heaven-defying  audacity — makes  its 
modern  newness. 

The  scheme  of  Europe  was  no  sudden  invention, 
but  a  way  out  of  long-pressing  difficulties.  It  is  plain 
to  modern  white  civilization  that  the  subjection  of 
the  white  working  classes  cannot  much  longer  be 
maintained.  Education,  political  power,  and  increased 
knowledge  of  the  technique  and  meaning  of  the  in 
dustrial  process  are  destined  to  make  a  more  and 
more  equitable  distribution  of  wealth  in  the  near  fu 
ture.  The  day  of  the  very  rich  is  drawing  to  a  close,  so 
far  as  individual  white  nations  are  concerned.  But 
there  is  a  loophole.  There  is  a  chance  for  exploitation 
on  an  immense  scale  for  inordinate  profit,  not  simply 
to  the  very  rich,  but  to  the  middle  class  and  to  the 
laborers.  This  chance  lies  in  the  exploitation  of 
darker  peoples.  It  is  here  that  the  golden  hand  beck 
ons.  Here  are  no  labor  unions  or  votes  or  ques- 


44  DARKWATER 

tioning  onlookers  or  inconvenient  consciences.  These 
men  may  be  used  down  to  the  very  bone,  and  shot  and 
maimed  in  "  punitive  "  expeditions  when  they  revolt. 
In  these  dark  lands  "  industrial  development "  may 
repeat  in  exaggerated  form  every  horror  of  the  indus 
trial  history  of  Europe,  from  slavery  and  rape  to 
disease  and  maiming,  with  only  one  test  of  success, — 
dividends ! 

This  theory  of  human  culture  and  its  aims  has 
worked  itself  through  warp  and  woof  of  our  daily 
thought  with  a  thoroughness  that  few  realize.  Every 
thing  great,  good,  efficient,  fair,  and  honorable  is 
"white";  everything  mean,  bad,  blundering,  cheating, 
and  dishonorable  is  "yellow";  a  bad  taste  is 
"  brown";  and  the. devil  is  "  black."  The  changes  of 
this  theme  are  continually  rung  in  picture  and  story, 
in  newspaper  heading  and  moving-picture,  in  sermon 
and  school  book,  until,  of  course,  the  King  can  do  no 
wrong, — a  White  Man  is  always  right  and  a  Black 
Man  has  no  rights  which  a  white  man  is  bound  to 
respect. 

There  must  come  the  necessary  despisings  and 
hatreds  of  these  savage  half -men,  this  unclean  canaille 
of  the  world — these  dogs  of  men.  All  through  the 
world  this  gospel  is  preaching.  It  has  its  literature, 
it  has  its  priests,  it  has  its  secret  propaganda  and  above 
all — it  pays! 

There's  the  rub, — it  pays.  Rubber,  ivory,  and 
palm-oil ;  tea,  coffee,  and  cocoa ;  bananas,  oranges,  and 
other  fruit;  cotton,  gold,  and  copper — they,  and  a 
hundred  other  things  which  dark  and  sweating  bodies 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  45 

hand  up  to  the  white  world  from  their  pits  of  slime, 
pay  and  pay  well,  but  of  all  that  the  world  gets  the 
black  world  gets  only  the  pittance  that  the  white  world 
throws  it  disdainfully. 

Small  wonder,  then,  that  in  the  practical  world  of 
things-that-be  there  is  jealousy  and  strife  for  the  pos 
session  of  the  labor  of  dark  millions,  for  the  right 
to  bleed  and  exploit  the  colonies  of  the  world  where 
this  golden  stream  may  be  had,  not  always  for  the 
asking,  but  surely  for  the  whipping  and  shooting.  It 
was  this  competition  for  the  labor  of  yellow,  brown, 
and  black  folks  that  was  the  cause  of  the  World  War. 
Other  causes  have  been  glibly  given  and  other  contrib 
uting  causes  there  doubtless  were,  but  they  were  sub 
sidiary  and  subordinate  to  this  vast  quest  of  the  dark 
world's  wealth  and  toil. 

Colonies,  we  call  them,  these places  jdiere 

"  niggers  "_an^cheap  and  the  earth  is  richj_they^  are 
those  outlands  where  like  a  swarm  of  hungry  locusts 
white  masters  may  settle  to  be  served  as  kings,,  wield 
the  lash  of  slave-drivers,  rape  girls  and  wives,  grow 
as  rich  as  Croesus  and  send  homeward  a  golden 
stream.  They  belt  the  earth,  these  places,  but  they 
cluster  in  the  tropics,  with  its  darkened  peoples:  in 
Hong  Kong  and  Anam,  in  Borneo  and  Rhodesia,  in 
Sierra  Leone  and  Nigeria,  in  Panama  and  Havana — 
these  are  the  El  Dorados  toward  which  the  world 
powers  stretch  itching  palms. 

Germany,  at  last  one  and  united  and  secure  on  land, 
looked  across  the  seas  and  seeing  England  with 
sources  of  wealth  insuring  a  luxury  and  power  which 


46  DARKWATER 

Germany  could  not  hope  to  rival  by  the  slower  pro 
cesses  of  exploiting  her  own  peasants  and  working- 
men,  especially  with  these  workers  half  in  revolt,  im 
mediately  built  her  navy  and  entered  into  a  desperate 
competition  for  possession  of  colonies  of  darker 
peoples.  To  South  America,  to  China,  to  Africa,  to 
Asia  Minor,  she  turned  like  a  hound  quivering  on  the 
leash,  impatient,  suspicious,  irritable,  with  blood-shot 
eyes  and  dripping  fangs,  ready  for  the  awful  word. 
England  and  France  crouched  watchfully  over  their 
bones,  growling  and  wary,  but  gnawing  industriously, 
while  the  blood  of  the  dark  world  whetted  their  greedy 
appetites.  In  the  background,  shut  out  from  the 
highway  to  the  seven  seas,  sat  Russia  and  Austria, 
snarling  and  snapping  at  each  other  and  at  the  last 
Mediterranean  gate  to  the  El  Dorado,  where  the  Sick 
Man  enjoyed  bad  health,  and  where  millions  of  serfs 
in  the  Balkans,  Russia,  and  Asia  offered  a  feast  to 
greed  well-nigh  as  great  as  Africa. 

The  fateful  day  came.  It  had  to  come.  The  cause 
of  war  is  preparation  for  war;  and  of  all  that  Europe 
has  done  in  a  century  there  is  nothing  that  has  equaled 
in  energy,  thought,  and  time  her  preparation  for 
wholesale  murder.  The  only  adequate  cause  of  this 
preparation  was  conquest  and  conquest,  not  in  Eu 
rope,  but  primarily  among  the  darker  peoples  of  Asia 
and  Africa;  conquest,  not  for  assimilation_and  uplift, 
but  for  commerce  and  degradation.  For  this,  and 
this  mainly,  did  Europe  gird  herself  at  frightful  cost 
for  war. 

The  red  day  dawned  when  the  tinder  was  lighted 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  47 

in  the  Balkans  and  AustroHungary  seized  a  bit  which 
brought  her  a  step  nearer  to  the  world's  highway;  she 
seized  one  bit  and  poised  herself  for  another.  Then 
came  that  curious  chorus  of  challenges,  those  leaping 
suspicions,  raking  all  causes  for  distrust  and  rivalry 
and  hatred,  but  saying  little  of  the  real  and  greatest 
cause. 

Each  nation  felt  its  deep  interests  involved.  But 
how?  Not,  surely,  in  the  death  of  Ferdinand  the 
Warlike;  not,  surely,  in  the  old,  half -forgotten 
revanche  for  Alsace-Lorraine;  not  even  in  the  neu 
trality  of  Belgium.  No!  But  in  the  possession  of 
land  overseas,  in  the  right  to  colonies,  the  chance  to 
levy  endless  tribute  on  the  darker  world, — on  coolies 
in  China,  on  starving  peasants  in  India,  on  black 
savages  in  Africa,  on  dying  South  Sea  Islanders,  on 
Indians  of  the  Amazon — all  this  and  nothing  more. 

Even  the  broken  reed  on  which  we  had  rested  high 
hopes  of  eternal  peace, — the  guild  of  the  laborers — the 
front  of  that  very  important  movement  for  human 
justice  on  which  we  had  builded  most,  even  this  flew 
like  a  straw  before  the  breath  of  king  and  kaiser. 
Indeed,  the  flying  had  been  foreshadowed  when  in 
Germany  and  America  "  international  "  Socialists  had 
all  but  read  yellow  and  black  men  out  of  the  kingdom 
of  industrial  justice.  Subtly  had  they  been  bribed, 
but  effectively:  Were  they  not  lordly  whites  and 
should  they  not  share  in  the  spoils  of  rape?  High 
wages  in  the  United  States  and  England  might  be 
the  skilfully  manipulated  result  of  slavery  in  Africa 
and  of  peonage  in  Asia. 


48  DARKWATER 

With  the  dog-in-the-manger  theory  of  trade,  with 
the  determination  to  reap  inordinate  profits  and  to  ex 
ploit  the  weakest  to  the  utmost  there  came  a  new  impe 
rialism, — the  rage  for  one's  own  nation  to  own  the 
earth  or,  at  least,  a  large  enough  portion  of  it  to 
insure  as  big  profits  as  the  next  nation.  Where  sec 
tions  could  not  be  owned  by  one  dominant  nation  there 
came  a  policy  of  "'open  door,"  but  the  "  door  "  was 
open  to  "  white  people  only."  As  to  the  darkest  and 
weakest  of  peoples  there  was  but  one  unanimity  in 
Europe, — that  which  Herr  Dernberg  of  the  German 
Colonial  Office  called  the  agreement  with  England  to 
maintain  white  "  prestige  "  in  Africa, — the  doctrine 
of  the  divine  right  of  white  people  to  steal. 

Thus  the  world  market  most  wildly  and  desperately 
sought  today  is  the  market  where  labor  is  cheapest 
and  most  helpless  and  profit  is  most  abundant.  This 
labor  is  kept  cheap  and  helpless  because  the  white 
world  despises  "  darkies."  If  one  has  the  temerity 
to  suggest  that  these  workingmen  may  walk  the  way 
of  white  workingmen  and  climb  by  votes  and  self- 
assertion  and  education  to  the  rank  of  men,  he  is 
howled  out  of  court.  They  cannot  do  it  and  if  they 
could,  they  shall  not,  for  they  are  the  enemies  of  the 
white  race  and  the  whites  shall  rule  forever  and  for 
ever  and  everywhere.  Thus  the  hatred  and  despising 
of  human  beings  from  whom  Europe  wishes  to  extort 
her  luxuries  has  led  to  such  jealousy  and  bickering 
between  European  nations  that  they  have  fallen  afoul 
of  each  other  and  have  fought  like  crazed  beasts. 
Such  is  the  fruit  of  human  hatred. 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  49 

But  what  of  the  darker  world  that  watches?  Most 
men  belong  to  this  world.  With  Negro  and  Negroid, 
East  Indian,  Chinese,  and  Japanese  they  form  two- 
thirds  of  the  population  of  the  world.  A  belief  Jin 
humanity  is_a ^belief jn _colored  men.  If  the  uplift  of 
mankind  must  be  done  by  men,  then  the  destinies  of 
this  world  will  rest  ultimately  in  the  hands  of  darker 
nations. 

What,  then,  is  this  dark  world  thinking?  It  is 
thinking  that  as  wild  and  awful  as  this  shameful  war 
was,  it  is  nothing  to  compare  with  that  fight  for  free 
dom  which  black  and  brown  and  yellow  men  must 
and  will  make  unless  their  oppression  and  humilia 
tion  and  insult  at  the  hands  of  the  White  World 
cease.  The  Dark  World  is  going  to  submit  to  its 
present  treatment  j^t_as^long_as_it  must  and  not  one 
moment  longer. 

Let  me  say  this  again  and  emphasize  it  and  leave 
no  room  for  mistaken  meaning:  The  World  War 
was  primarily  the  jealous  and  avaricious  struggle  "for 
the  largest  share  in  exploiting  darker  races.  As  such 
it  is  and  must  be  but  the  prelude  to  the  armed  and 
indignant  protest  of  these  despised  and  raped  peoples. 
Today  Japan  is  hammering  on  the  door  of  justice, 
China  is  raising  her  half-manacled  hands  to  knock 
next,  India  is  writhing  for  the  freedom  to  knock, 
Egypt  is  sullenly  muttering,  the  Negroes  of  South 
and  West  Africa,  of  the  West  Indies,  and  of  the 
United  States  are  just  awakening  to  their  shameful 
slavery.  Is,  then,  this  war  the  end  of  wars?  Can 
it  be  the  end,  so  long  as  sits  enthroned,  even  in  the 


50  DARKWATER 

souls  of  those  who  cry  peace,  the  despising  and  robbing 
of  darker  peoples?  If  Europe  hugs  this  delusion, 
then  this  is  not  the  end  of  world  war, — it  is  but  the 
beginning ! 

We  see  Europe's  greatest  sin  precisely  where  we 
found  Africa's  and  Asia's, — in  human  hatred,  the 
despising  of  men;  with  this  difference,  however:  Eu 
rope  has  the  awful  lesson  of  the  past  before  her,  has 
the  splendid  results  of  widened  areas  of  tolerance, 
sympathy,  and  love  among  men,  and  she  faces  a 
greater,  an  infinitely  greater,  world  of  men  than  any 
preceding  civilization  ever  faced. 

It  is  curious  to  see  America,  the  United  States, 
looking  on  herself,  first,  as  a  sort  of  natural  peace 
maker,  then  as  a  moral  protagonist  in  this  terrible 
time.  No  nation  is  less  fitted  for  this  role.  For  two 
or  more  centuries  America  has  marched  proudly  in  the 
van  of  human  hatred, — making  bonfires  of  human 
flesh  and  laughing  at  them  hideously,  and  making  the 
insulting  of  millions  more  than  a  matter  of  dislike, 
— rather  a  great  religion,  a  world  war-cry:  Up 
white,  down  black;  to  your  tents,  O  white  folk,  and 
world  war  with  black  and  parti-colored  mongrel 
beasts ! 

Instea^o^_sta_nding^  as  a  great  example  of  the  suc 
cess  of  democracy  and  the  possibility  of  human 
brotherhood  America  has  taken  her  place  as  an  awful 
example  of  its  pitfalls  and  failures,  so  far  as  black 
and  brown  and  yellow  peoples  are  concerned.  And 
this,  too,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  there  has  been  no 
actual  failure;  the  Indian  is  not  dying  out,  the  Japan- 


THE  SOULS  OF  WHITE  FOLK  51 

ese  and  Chinese  have  not  menaced  the  land,  and 
the  experiment  of  Negro  suffrage  has  resulted  in  the 
uplift  of  twelve  million  people  at  a  rate  probably  un 
paralleled  in  history.  But  what  of  this?  America, 
Land  of  Democracy,  wanted  to  believe  in  the  failure 
of  democracy  so  far  as  darker  peoples  were  concerned. 
Absolutely  without  excuse  she  established  a  caste  sys 
tem,  rushed  into  preparation  for  war,  and  conquered 
tropical  colonies.  Shestands  today  ^shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  Europe  in  Europe's  worst  sin  against 
civilization.  She  aspires  to  sit  among  the  great  na 
tions  who  arbitrate  the  fate  of  "  lesser  breeds  without 
the  law  "  and  she  is  at  times  heartily  ashamed  even 
of  the  large  number  of  "  new  "  white  people  whom 
her  democracy  has  admitted  to  place  and  power. 
Against  this  surging  forward  of  Irish  and  German, 
of  Russian  Jew,  Slav  and  "  dago "  her  social  bars 
have  not  availed,  but  against  Negroes  she  can  and 
does  take  her  unflinching  and  immovable  stand, 
backed  by  this  new  public  policy  of  Europe.  She 
trains  her  immigrants  to  this  despising  of  "  niggers  " 
from  the  day  of  their  landing,  and  they  carry  and 
send  the  news  back  to  the  submerged  classes  in  the 
fatherlands. 

All  this  I  see  and  hear  up  in  my  tower,  above  the 
thunder  of  the  seven  seas.  From  my  narrowed  win 
dows  I  stare  into  the  night  that  looms  beneath  the 
cloud-swept  stars.  Eastward  and  westward  storms 
are  breaking,— great,  ugly  whirlwinds  of  hatred  and 
blood  and  cruelty.  I  will  not  believe  them  inevitable. 


52  DARKWATER 

I  will  not  believe  that  all  that  was  must  be,  that  all  the 
shameful  drama  of  the  past  must  be  done  again  today 
before  the  sunlight  sweeps  the  silver  seas. 

If  I  cry  amid  this  roar  of  elemental  forces,  must 
my  cry  be  in  vain,  because  it  is  but  a  cry, — a  small 
and  human  cry  amid  Promethean  gloom? 

Back  beyond  the  world  and  swept  by  these  wild, 
white  faces  of  the  awful  d^ad,  why  will  this  Soul 
of  White  'Folk, — this  modern  Prometheus, — hang 
bound  by  his  own  binding,  tethered  by  a  fable  of  the 
past?  I  hear  his  mighty  cry  reverberating  through 
the  world,  "I  am  white!"  Well  and  good,  O  Pro 
metheus,  divine  thief !  Is  not  the  world  wide  enough 
for  two  colors,  for  many  little  shinings  of  the  sun? 
Why,  then,  devour  your  own  vitals  if  I  answer  even 
as  proudly,  "  I  am  black!  " 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx 

Dark  daughter  of  the  lotus  leaves  that  watch  the  South 
ern  Sea! 
Wan  spirit  of  a  prisoned  soul  a-panting  to  be  free ! 

The  muttered  music  of  thy  streams,  the  whisper  of 

the  deep, 

Have  kissed  each  other  in  God's  name  and  kissed  a 
world  to  sleep. 

The  will  of  the  world  is  a  whistling  wind,  sweeping  a 

cloud-swept  sky, 
And  not  from  the  East  and  not  from  the  West  knelled 

that  soul-waking  cry, 
But  out   of   the   South, — the  sad,  black   South — it 

screamed  from  the  top  of  the  sky, 
Crying :  "  Awake,  O  ancient  race !  "     Wailing,  "  O 

woman,  arise ! " 
And  crying  and  sighing  and  crying  again  as  a  voice  in 

the  midnight  cries, — 

But  the  burden  of  white  men  bore  her  back  and  the 
white  world  stifled  her  sighs. 

The  white  world's  vermin  and  filth : 
All  the  dirt  of  London, 
All  the  scum  of  New  York; 
Valiant  spoilers  of  women 
And  conquerors  of  unarmed  men ; 
Shameless  breeders  of  bastards, 
Drunk  with  the  greed  of  gold, 
Baiting  their  blood-stained  hooks 
With  cant  for  the  souls  of  the  simple ; 
Bearing  the  white  man's  burden 
Of  liquor  and  lust  and  lies! 
53 


54  DARKWATER 

Unthankful  we  wince  in  the  East, 
Unthankful  we  wail  from  the  westward, 
Unthankfully  thankful,  we  curse, 
In  the  unworn  wastes  of  the  wild: 
I  hate  them,  Oh ! 
I  hate  them  well, 
I  hate  them,  Christ ! 
As  I  hate  hell ! 
If  I  were  God, 
I'd  sound  their  knell 
This  day! 

Who  raised  the  fools  to  their  glory, 
But  black  men  of  Egypt  and  Ind, 
Ethiopia's  sons  of  the  evening, 
Indians  and  yellow  Chinese, 
Arabian  children  of  morning, 
And  mongrels  of  Rome  and  Greece? 

Ah,  well ! 

And  they  that  raised  the  boasters 
Shall  drag  them  down  again, — 
Down  with  the  theft  of  their  thieving 
And  murder  and  mocking  of  men ; 
Down  with  their  barter  of  women 
And  laying  and  lying  of  creeds ; 
Down  with  their  cheating  of  childhood 
And  drunken  orgies  of  war, — 
down 
down 

deep  down, 

Till  the  devil's  strength  be  shorn, 
Till  some  dim,  darker  David,  a-hoeing  of  his  corn, 
And  married  maiden,  mother  of  God, 
Bid  the  black  Christ  be  born ! 
Then  shall  our  burden  be  manhood, 
Be  it  yellow  or  black  or  white ; 
And  poverty  and  justice  and  sorrow, 
The  humble  and  simple  and  strong 


THE  RIDDLE  OF  THE  SPHINX  55 

Shall  sing  with  the  sons  of  morning 
And  daughters  of  even-song: 

Black  mother  of  the  iron  hills  that  ward  the 

blazing  sea, 
Wild  spirit  of  a  storm-swept  soul,  a-struggling 

to  be  free, 
Where    'neath    the    bloody    finger-marks    thy 

riven  bosom  quakes, 
Thicken  the  thunders  of  God's  Voice  and  lo! 

a  world  awakes! 


Ill 

THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA 

"Semper  novl  quid  ex  Africa"  cried  the  Roman 
proconsul,  and  he  voiced  the  verdict  of  forty  centuries. 
Yet  there  are  those  who  would  write  world  history 
and  leave  out  of  account  this  most  marvelous  of  con 
tinents.  Particularly  today  most  men  assume  that 
Africa  is  far  afield  from  the  center  of  our  burning 
social  problems  and  especially  from  our  problem  of 
world  war. 

Always  Africa  is  giving  us  something  new  or  some 
metempsychosis  of  a  world-old  thing.  On  its  black 
bosom  arose  one  of  the  earliest,  if  not  the  earliest,  of 
self-protecting  civilizations,  which  grew  so  mightily 
that  it  still  furnishes  superlatives  to  thinking  and 
speaking  men.  Out  of  its  darker  and  more  remote 
forest  fastnesses  came,  if  we  may  credit  many  recent 
scientists,  the  first  welding  of  iron,  and  we  know 
that  agriculture  and  trade  flourished  there  when  Eu 
rope  was  a  wilderness. 

Nearly  every  human  empire  that  has  arisen  in  the 
world,  material  and  spiritual,  has  found  some  of  its 
greatest  crises  on  this  continent  of  Africa,  from 
Greece  to  Great  Britain.  As  Mommsen  says :  "  It  was 
through  Africa  that  Christianity  became  the  religion 
of  the  world."  In  Africa  the  last  flood  of  Germanic 

56 


THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA  57 

invasions  spent  itself  within  hearing  of  the  last  gasp 
of  Byzantium,  and  it  was  through  Africa  that  Islam 
came  to  play  its  great  role  of  conqueror  and  civilizer. 
With  the  Renaissance  and  the  widened  world  of 
modern  thought  Africa  came  no  less  suddenly  with 
her  new-old  gift.  Shakespeare's  "Ancient  Pistol" 
cries : 

A  f outre  for  the  world  and  worldlings  base ! 
I  speak  of  Africa  and  golden  joys ! 

He  echoes  a  legend  of  gold  from  the  days  of  Punt 
and  Ophir  to  those  of  Ghana,  the  Gold  Coast,  and 
the  Rand.  This  thought  had  sent  the  world's  greed 
scurrying  down  the  hot,  mysterious  coasts  of  Africa 
to  the  Good  Hope  of  gain,  until  for  the  first  time  a 
real  world-commerce  was  born,  albeit  it  started  as  a 
commerce  mainly  in  the  bodies  and  souls  of  men. 

The  present  problem  of  problems  is  nothing  more 
than  democracy  beating  itself  helplessly  against  the 
color  bar, — purling,  seeping,  seething,  foaming  to 
burst  through,  ever  and  again  overwhelming  the 
emerging  masses  of  white  men  in  its  rolling  back 
waters  and  held  back  by  those  who  dream  of  future 
kingdoms  of  greed  built  on  black  and  brown  and 
yellow  slavery. 

The  indictment  of  Africa  against  Europe  is  grave. 
For  four  hundred  years  white  Europe  was  the  chief 
support  of  that  trade  in  human  beings  which  first  and 
last  robbed  black  Africa  of  a  hundred  million  human 
beings,  transformed  the  face  of  her  social  life,  over 
threw  organized  government,  distorted  ancient  indus- 


58  DARKWATER 

try,  and  snuffed  out  the  lights  of  cultural  development. 
Today  instead  of  removing  laborers  from  Africa  to 
distant  slavery,  industry  built  on  a  new  slavery  ap 
proaches  Africa  to  deprive  the  natives  of  their  land, 
to  force  them  to  toil,  and  to  reap  all  the  profit  for 
the  white  world. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  remind  the  reader  of  the 
essential  facts  underlying  these  broad  assertions.  A 
recent  law  of  the  Union  of  South  Africa  assigns 
nearly  two  hundred  and  fifty  million  acres  of  the  best 
of  natives'  land  to  a  million  and  a  half  whites  and 
leaves  thirty-six  million  acres  of  swamp  and  marsh 
for  four  and  a  half-million  blacks.  In  Rhodesia  over 
ninety  million  acres  have  been  practically  confiscated. 
In  the  Belgian  Congo  all  the  land  was  declared  the 
property  of  the  state. 

Slavery  in  all  but  name  has  been  the  foundation 
of  the  cocoa  industry  in  St.  Thome  and  St.  Principe 
and  in  the  mines  of  the  Rand.  Gin  has  been  one  of 
the  greatest  of  European  imports,  having  increased 
fifty  per  cent,  in  ten  years  and  reaching  a  total  of  at 
least  twenty-five  million  dollars  a  year  today. 
Negroes  of  ability  have  been  carefully  gotten  rid  of, 
deposed  from  authority,  kept  out  of  positions  of  in 
fluence,  and  discredited  in  their  people's  eyes,  while  a 
caste  of  white  overseers  and  governing  officials  has  ap 
peared  everywhere. 

Naturally,  the  picture  is  not  all  lurid.  David  Liv 
ingstone  has  had  his  successors  and  Europe  has  given 
Africa  something  of  value  in  the  beginning  of  educa 
tion  and  industry.  Yet  the  balance  of  iniquity  is 


THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA  59 

desperately  large;  but  worse  than  that,  it  has  aroused 
no  world  protest.  A  great  Englishman,  familiar  with 
African  problems  for  a  generation,  says  frankly  to 
day  :  "  There  does  not  exist  any  real  international 
conscience  to  which  you  can  appeal." 

Moreover,  that  treatment  shows  no  certain  signs 
of  abatement.  Today  in  England  the  Empire  Re 
sources  Development  Committee  proposes  to  treat 
African  colonies  as  "  crown  estates  "  and  by  intensive 
scientific  exploitation  of  both  land  and  labor  to  make 
these  colonies  pay  the  English  national  debt  after  the 
war!  German  thinkers,  knowing  the  tremendous 
demand  for  raw  material  which  would  follow  the  war, 
had  similar  plans  of  exploitation.  "  It  is  the  clear, 
common  sense  of  the  African  situation,"  says  H.  G. 
Wells,  "  that  while  these  precious  regions  of  raw 
material  remain  divided  up  between  a  number  of 
competitive  European  imperialisms,  each  resolutely 
set  upon  the  exploitation  of  its  *  possessions '  to  its 
own  advantage  and  the  disadvantage  of  the  others, 
there  can  be  no  permanent  peace  in  the  world.  It  is 
impossible." 

We,  then,  who  fought  the  war  against  war;  who 
in  a  hell  of  blood  and  suffering  held  hardly  our  souls 
in  leash  by  the  vision  of  a  world  organized  for  peace; 
who  are  looking  for  industrial  democracy  and  for  the 
organization  of  Europe  so  as  to  avoid  incentives  to 
war, — we,  least  of  all,  should  be  willing  to  leave  the 
backward  world  as  the  greatest  temptation,  not  only  to 
wars  based  on  international  jealousies,  but  to  the  most 
horrible  of  wars/ — which  arise  from  the  revolt  of  the 


60  DARKWATER 

maddened  against  those  who  hold  them  in  common 
contempt. 

Consider,  my  reader, — if  you  were  today  a  man  of 
some  education  and  knowledge,  but  born  a  Japanese 
or  a  Chinaman,  an  East  Indian  or  a  Negro,  what 
would  you  do  and  think?  What  would  be  in  the 
present  chaos  your  outlook  and  plan  for  the  future? 
Manifestly,  you  would  want  freedom  for  your  people, 
— freedom  from  insult,  from  segregation,  from 
poverty,  from  physical  slavery.  If  the  attitude  of  the 
European  and  American  worlds  is  in  the  future  going 
to  be  based  essentially  upon  the  same  policies  as  in 
the  past,  then  there  is  but  one  thing  for  the  trained 
man  of  darker  blood  to  do  and  that  is  definitely  and 
as  openly  as  possible  to  organize  his  world  for  war 
against  Europe.  He  may  have  to  do  it  by  secret, 
underground  propaganda,  as  in  Egypt  and  India  and 
eventually  in  the  United  States;  or  by  open  increase 
of  armament,  as  in  Japan;  or  by  desperate  efforts  at 
modernization,  as  in  China;  but  he  must  do  it.  He 
represents  the  vast  majority  of  mankind.  To  surrender 
would  be  far  worse  than  physical  death.  There  is  no 
way  out  unless  the  white  world  opens  the  door. 
Either  the  white  world  gives  up  such  insult  as  its 
modern  use  of  the  adjective  "  yellow  "  indicates,  or 
its  connotation  of  "  chink  "  and  "nigger"  implies; 
either  it  gives  up  the  plan  of  color  serfdom  which  its 
use  of  the  other  adjective  "  white  "  implies,  as  indicat 
ing  everything  decent  and  every  part  of  the  world 
worth  living  in, — or  trouble  is  written  in  the  stars ! 

It  is,  therefore,  of  singular  importance  after  dis- 


THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA  61 

quieting  delay  to  see  the  real  Pacifist  appear.  Both 
England  and  Germany  have  recently  been  basing  their 
claims  to  parts  of  black  Africa  on  the  wishes  and 
interests  of  the  black  inhabitants.  Lloyd  George  has 
declared  "  the  general  principle  of  national  self-deter 
mination  applicable  at  least  to  German  Africa,"  while 
Chancellor  Hertling  once  welcomed  a  discussion  "  on 
the  reconstruction  of  the  world's  colonial  posses 


sions." 


The  demand  that  an  Africa  for  Africans  shall  re 
place  the  present  barbarous  scramble  for  exploitation 
by  individual  states  comes  from  singularly  different 
sources.  Colored  America  demands  that  "  the  con 
quered  German  colonies  should  not  be  returned  to  Ger 
many,  neither  should  they  be  held  by  the  Allies.  Here 
is  the  opportunity  for  the  establishment  of  a  nation 
that  may  never  recur.  Thousands  of  colored  men,  sick 
of  white  arrogance  and  hypocrisy,  see  in  this  their 
race's  only  salvation." 

Sir  Harry  H.  Johnston  recently  said :  "  If  we  are 
to  talk,  as  we  do,  sentimentally  but  justly  about  restor 
ing  the  nationhood  of  Poland,  about  giving  satis 
faction  to  the  separatist  feeling  in  Ireland,  and  about 
what  is  to  be  done  for  European  nations  who  are  op 
pressed,  then  we  can  hardly  exclude  from  this  feeling 
the  countries  of  Africa." 

Laborers,  black  laborers,  on  the  Canal  Zone  write: 
"  Out  of  this  chaos  may  be  the  great  awakening  of 
our  race.  There  is  cause  for  rejoicing.  If  we  fail 
to  embrace  this  opportunity  now,  we  fail  to  see  how 
we  will  be  ever  able  to  solve  the  race  question.  It 


62  DARKWATER 

is  for  the  British  Negro,  the  French  Negro,  and  the 
American  Negro  to  rise  to  the  occasion  and  start  a 
national  campaign,  jointly  and  collectively,  with  this 


aim  in  view." 


From  British  West  Africa  comes  the  bitter  com 
plaint  "  that  the  West  Africans  should  have  the  right 
or  opportunity  to  settle  their  future  for  themselves 
is  a  thing  which  hardly  enters  the  mind  of  the  Eu 
ropean  politician.  That  the  Balkan  States  should  be 
admitted  to  the  Council  of  Peace  and  decide  the  gov 
ernment  under  which  they  are  to  live  is  taken  as  a 
matter  of  course  because  they  are  Europeans,  but  no 
extra-European  is  credited,  even  by  the  extremest  ad 
vocates  of  human  equality,  with  any  right  except  to 
humbly  accept  the  fate  which  Europe  shall  decide  for 
him." 

Here,  then,  is  the  danger  and  the  demand ;  and  the 
real  Pacifist  will  seek  to  organize,  not  simply  the 
masses  in  white  nations,  guarding  against  exploitation 
and  profiteering,  but  will  remember  that  no  permanent 
relief  can  come  but  by  including  in  this  organization 
the  lowest  and  the  most  exploited  races  in  the  world. 
World  philanthropy,  like  national  philanthropy,  must 
come  as  uplift  and  prevention  and  not  merely  as  al 
leviation  and  religious  conversion.  Reverence  for 
humanity,  as  such,  must  be  installed  in  the  world,  and 
Africa  should  be  the  talisman. 

Black  Africa,  including  British,  French,  Belgian, 
Portuguese,  Italian,  and  Spanish  possessions  and  the 
independent  states  of  Abyssinia  and  Liberia  and  leav 
ing  out  of  account  Egypt  and  North  Africa,  on  the 


THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA  63 

one  hand,  and  South  Africa,  on  the  other,  has  an  area 
of  8,200,000  square  miles  and  a  population  well  over 
one  hundred  millions  of  black  men,  with  less  than 
one  hundred  thousand  whites. 

Commercial  exploitation  in  Africa  has  already 
larger  results  to  show  than  most  people  realize.  An 
nually  $200,000,000  worth  of  goods  was  coming  out 
of  black  Africa  before  the  World  War,  including  a 
third  of  the  world's  supply  of  rubber,  a  quarter  of  all 
of  the  world's  cocoa,  and  practically  all  of  the  world's 
cloves,  gum-arabic,  and  palm-oil.  In  exchange  there 
was  being  returned  to  Africa  one  hundred  millions  in 
cotton  cloth,  twenty-five  millions  in  iron  and  steel,  and 
as  much  in  foods,  and  probably  twenty-five  millions  in 
liquors. 

Here  are  the  beginnings  of  a  modern  industrial  sys 
tem  :  iron  and  steel  for  permanent  investment,  bound 
to  yield  large  dividends;  cloth  as  the  cheapest  ex 
change  for  invaluable  raw  material;  liquor  to  tickle 
the  appetites  of  the  natives  and  render  the  alienation 
of  land  and  the  break-down  of  customary  law  easier; 
eventually  forced  and  contract  labor  under  white 
drivers  to  increase  and  systematize  the  production  of 
raw  materials.  These  materials  are  capable  of  indefi 
nite  expansion :  cotton  may  yet  challenge  the  southern 
United  States,  fruits  and  vegetables,  hides  and  skins, 
lumber  and  dye-stuffs,  coffee  and  tea,  grain  and 
tobacco,  and  fibers  of  all  sorts  can  easily  follow  organ 
ized  and  systematic  toil. 

Is  it  a  paradise  of  industry  we  thus  contemplate? 
It  is  much  more  likely  to  be  a  hell.  Under  present 


64  DARKWATER 

plans  there  will  be  no  voice  or  law  or  custom  to 
protect  labor,  no  trades  unions,  no  eight-hour  laws, 
no  factory  legislation, — nothing  of  that  great  body  of 
legislation  built  up  in  modern  days  to  protect  mankind 
from  sinking  to  the  level  of  beasts  of  burden.  All 
the  industrial  deviltry,  which  civilization  has  been 
driving  to  the  slums  and  the  backwaters,  will  have  a 
voiceless  continent  to  conceal  it.  If  the  slave  cannot 
be  taken  from  Africa,  slavery  can  be  taken  to  Africa. 

Who  are  the  folk  who  live  here  ?  They  are  brown 
and  black,  curly  and  crisp-haired,  short  and  tall,  and 
longheaded.  Out  of  them  in  days  without  date  flowed 
the  beginnings  of  Egypt;  among  them  rose,  later, 
centers  of  culture  at  Ghana,  Melle,  and  Timbuktu. 
Kingdoms  and  empires  flourished  in  Songhay  and 
Zymbabwe,  and  art  and  industry  in  Yoruba  and  Benin. 
They  have  fought  every  human  calamity  in  its  most 
hideous  form  and  yet  today  they  hold  some  similar 
vestiges  of  a  mighty  past, — their  work  in  iron,  their 
weaving  and  carving,  their  music  and  singing,  their 
tribal  government,  their  town-meeting  and  market 
place,  their  desperate  valor  in  war. 

Missionaries  and  commerce  have  left  some  good 
with  all  their  evil.  In  black  Africa  today  there  are 
more  than  a  thousand  government  schools  and  some 
thirty  thousand  mission  schools,  with  a  more  or  less 
regular  attendance  of  three-quarters  of  a  million  school 
children.  In  a  few  cases  training  of  a  higher  order  is 
given  chiefs'  sons  and  selected  pupils.  These  begin 
nings  of  education  are  not  much  for  so  vast  a  land 
and  there  is  no  general  standard  or  set  plan  of  develop- 


THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA  65 

ment,  but,  after  all,  the  children  of  Africa  are  begin 
ning  to  learn. 

In  black  Africa  today  only  one-seventeenth  of  the 
land  and  a  ninth  of  the  people  in  Liberia  and  Abys 
sinia  are  approximately  independent,  although  men 
aced  and  policed  by  European  capitalism.  Half  the 
land  and  the  people  are  in  domains  under  Portugal, 
France,  and  Belgium,  held  with  the  avowed  idea  of 
exploitation  for  the  benefit  of  Europe  under  a  system 
of  caste  and  color  serfdom.  Out  of  this  dangerous 
nadir  of  development  stretch  two  paths :  one  is  indi 
cated  by  the  condition  of  about  three  per  cent  of  the 
people  who  in  Sierra  Leone,  the  Gold  Coast,  and 
French  Senegal,  are  tending  toward  the  path  of  mod 
ern  development ;  the  other  path,  followed  by  a  fourth 
of  the  land  and  people,  has  local  self-government  and 
native  customs  and  might  evolve,  if  undisturbed,  a 
native  culture  along  their  own  peculiar  lines.  A  tenth 
of  the  land,  sparsely  settled,  is  being  monopolized  and 
held  for  whites  to  make  an  African  Australia.  To 
these  later  folk  must  be  added  the  four  and  one-half 
millions  of  the  South  African  Union,  who  by  every 
modern  device  are  being  forced  into  landless  serfdom. 

Before  the  World  War  tendencies  were  strongly 
toward  the  destruction  of  independent  Africa,  the 
industrial  slavery  of  the  mass  of  the  blacks  and  the 
encouragement  of  white  immigration,  where  possible, 
to  hold  the  blacks  in  subjection. 

Against  this  idea  let  us  set  the  conception  of  a  new 
African  World  State,  a  Black  Africa,  applying  to 
these  peoples  the  splendid  pronouncements  which  have 


66  DARKWATER 

of  late  been  so  broadly  and  perhaps  carelessly  given 
the  world:  recognizing  in  Africa  the  declaration  of 
the  American  Federation  of  Labor,  that  "no  people 
must  be  forced  under  sovereignty  under  which  it 
does  not  wish  to  live";  recognizing  in  President 
Wilson's  message  to  the  Russians,  the  "  principle  of 
the  undictated  development  of  all  peoples ";  recog 
nizing  the  resolution  of  the  recent  conference  of  the 
Aborigines  Protection  Society  of  England,  "  that  in 
any  reconstruction  of  Africa,  which  may  result  from 
this  war,  the  interests  of  the  native  inhabitants  and 
also  their  wishes,  in  so  far  as  those  wishes  can  be 
clearly  ascertained,  should  be  recognized  as  among 
the  principal  factors  upon  which  the  decision  of  their 
destiny  should  be  based."  In  other  words,  recogniz 
ing  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the  modern 
world  that  black  men  are  human. 

It  may  not  be  possible  to  build  this  state  at  once. 
With  the  victory  of  the  Entente  Allies,  the  German 
colonies,  with  their  million  of  square  miles  and  one- 
half  million  black  inhabitants,  should  form  such  a 
nucleus.  It  would  give  Black  Africa  its  physical 
beginnings.  Beginning  with  the  German  colonies  two 
other  sets  of  colonies  could  be  added,  for  obvious 
reasons.  Neither  Portugal  nor  Belgium  has  shown 
any  particular  capacity  for  governing  colonial  peo 
ples.  Valid  excuses  may  in  both  cases  be  advanced, 
but  it  would  certainly  be  fair  to  Belgium  to  have  her 
start  her  great  task  of  reorganization  after  the  World 
War  with  neither  the  burden  nor  the  temptation  of 
colonies;  and  in  the  same  way  Portugal  has,  in  reality, 


THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA  67 

the  alternative  of  either  giving  up  her  colonies  to 
an  African  State  or  to  some  other  European  State 
in  the  near  future.  These  two  sets  of  colonies  would 
add  1,700,000  square  miles  and  eighteen  million  in 
habitants.  It  would  not,  however,  be  fair  to  despoil 
Germany,  Belgium,  and  Portugal  of  their  colonies 
unless,  as  Count  Hertling  once  demanded,  the  whole 
question  of  colonies  be  opened. 

How  far  shall  the  modern  world  recognize  nations 
which  are  not  nations,  but  combinations  of  a  domi 
nant  caste  and  a  suppressed  horde  of  serfs?  Will 
it  not  be  possible  to  rebuild  a  world  with  compact 
nations,  empires  of  self-governing  elements,  and  col 
onies  of  backward  peoples  under  benevolent  interna 
tional  control? 

The  great  test  would  be  easy.  Does  England  pro 
pose  to  erect  in  India  and  Nigeria  nations  brown  and 
black  which  shall  be  eventually  independent,  self-gov 
erning  entities,  with  a  full  voice  in  the  British  Im 
perial  Government?  If  not,  let  these  states  either 
have  independence  at  once  or,  if  unfitted  for  that, 
be  put  under  international  tutelage  and  guardianship. 
It  is  possible  that  France,  with  her  great  heart,  may 
welcome  a  Black  France, — an  enlarged  Senegal  in 
Africa;  but  it  would  seem  that  eventually  all  Africa 
south  of  twenty  degrees  north  latitude  and  north  of 
the  Union  of  South  Africa  should  be  included  in  a 
new  African  State.  Somaliland  and  Eritrea  should 
be  given  to  Abyssinia,  and  then  with  Liberia  we  would 
start  with  two  small,  independent  African  states  and 
one  large  state  under  international  control. 


68  DARKWATER 

Does  this  sound  like  an  impossible  dream?  No 
one  could  be  blamed  for  so  regarding  it  before  1914. 
I,  myself,  would  have  agreed  with  them.  But  since 
the  nightmare  of  1914-1918,  since  we  have  seen  the 
impossible  happen  and  the  unspeakable  become  so 
common  as  to  cease  to  stir  us;  in  a  day  when  Russia 
has  dethroned  her  Czar,  England  has  granted  the 
suffrage  to  women  and  is  in  the  act  of  giving  Home 
Rule  to  Ireland;  when  Germany  has  adopted  parlia 
mentary  government;  when  Jerusalem  has  been  de 
livered  from  the  Turks;  and  the  United  States  has 
taken  control  of  its  railroads, — is  it  really  so  far 
fetched  to  think  of  an  Africa  for  the  Africans,  guided 
by  organized  civilization? 

No  one  would  expect  this  new  state  to  be  inde 
pendent  and  self -governing  from  the  start.  Contrary, 
however,  to  present  schemes  for  Africa  the  world 
would  expect  independence  and  self-government  as 
the  only  possible  end  of  the  experiment.  At  first 
we  can  conceive  of  no  better  way  of  governing  this 
state  than  through  that  same  international  control 
by  which  we  hope  to  govern  the  world  for  peace.  A 
curious  and  instructive  parallel  has  been  drawn  by 
Simeon  Strunsky :  "  Just  as  the  common  ownership 
of  the  northwest  territory  helped  to  weld  the  colonies 
into  the  United  States,  so  could  not  joint  and  benev 
olent  domination  of  Africa  and  of  other  backward 
parts  of  the  world  be  a  cornerstone  upon  which  the 
future  federation  of  the  world  could  be  built?" 

From  the  British  Labor  Party  comes  this  declara 
tion:  "With  regard  to  the  colonies  of  the  several 


THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA  69 

belligerents  in  tropical  Africa,  from  sea  to  sea,  the 
British  Labor  Movement  disclaims  all  sympathy  with 
the  imperialist  idea  that  these  should  form  the  booty 
of  any  nation,  should  be  exploited  for  the  profit  of  the 
capitalists,  or  should  be  used  for  the  promotion  of  the 
militarists'  aims  of  government.  In  view  of  the  fact 
that  it  is  impracticable  here  to  leave  the  various  peo 
ples  concerned  to  settle  their  own  destinies  it  is  sug 
gested  that  the  interests  of  humanity  would  be  best 
served  by  the  full  and  frank  abandonment  by  all 
the  belligerents  of  any  dreams  of  an  African  Empire; 
the  transfer  of  the  present  colonies  of  the  European 
Powers  in  tropical  Africa,  however,  and  the  limits  of 
this  area  may  be  defined  to  the  proposed  Super- 
national  Authority,  or  League  of  Nations." 

Lloyd  George  himself  has  said  in  regard  to  the 
German  colonies  a  word  difficult  to  restrict  merely  to 
them :  "  I  have  repeatedly  declared  that  they  are  held 
at  the  disposal  of  a  conference,  whose  decision  must 
have  primary  regard  to  the  wishes  and  interests  of 
the  native  inhabitants  of  such  colonies.  None  of  those 
territories  is  inhabited  by  Europeans.  The  govern 
ing  consideration,  therefore,  must  be  that  the  inhab 
itants  should  be  placed  under  the  control  of  an  ad 
ministration  acceptable  to  themselves,  one  of  whose 
main  purposes  will  be  to  prevent  their  exploitation 
for  the  benefit  of  European  capitalists  or  govern 
ments." 

The  special  commission  for  the  government  of  this 
African  State  must,  naturally,  be  chosen  with  great 
care  and  thought.  It  must  represent,  not  simply  gov- 


70  DARKWATER 

ernments,  but  civilization,  science,  commerce,  social 
reform,  religious  philanthropy  without  sectarian  prop 
aganda.  It  must  include,  not  simply  white  men,  but 
educated  and  trained  men  of  Negro  blood.  The  guid 
ing  principles  before  such  a  commission  should  be 
clearly  understood.  In  the  first  place,  it  ought  by  this 
time  to  be  realized  by  the  labor  movement  through 
out  the  world  that  no  industrial  democracy  can  be 
built  on  industrial  despotism,  whether  the  two  sys 
tems  are  in  the  same  country  or  in  different  countries, 
since  the  world  today  so  nearly  approaches  a  common 
industrial  unity.  If,  therefore,  it  is  impossible  in  any 
single  land  to  uplift  permanently  skilled  labor  with 
out  also  raising  common  labor,  so,  too,  there  can  be 
no  permanent  uplift  of  American  or  European  labor  as 
long  as  African  laborers  are  slaves. 

Secondly,  this  building  of  a  new  African  State  does 
not  mean  the  segregation  in  it  of  all  the  world's  black 
folk.  It  is  too  late  in  the  history  of  the  world  to  go 
back  to  the  idea  of  absolute  racial  segregation.  The 
new  African  State  would  not  involve  any  idea  of  a 
vast  transplantation  of  the  twenty-seven  million  Ne 
groids  of  the  western  world,  of  Africa,  or  of  the 
gathering  there  of  Negroid  Asia.  The  Negroes 
in  the  United  States  and  the  other  Americas  have 
earned  the  right  to  fight  out  their  problems  where 
they  are,  but  they  could  easily  furnish  from  time  to 
time  technical  experts,  leaders  of  thought,  and  mis 
sionaries  of  culture  for  their  backward  brethren  in 
the  new  Africa. 

With  these  two  principles,  the  practical  policies  to 


THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA  71 

be  followed  out  in  the  government  of  the  new  states 
should  involve  a  thorough  and  complete  system  of 
modern  education,  built  upon  the  present  government, 
religion,  and  customary  laws  of  the  natives.  There 
should  be  no  violent  tampering  with  the  curiously 
efficient  African  institutions  of  local  self-government 
through  the  family  and  the  tribe;  there  should  be 
no  attempt  at  sudden  "  conversion  "  by  religious  prop 
aganda.  Obviously  deleterious  customs  and  un 
sanitary  usages  must  gradually  be  abolished,  but  the 
general  government,  set  up  from  without,  must  follow 
the  example  of  the  best  colonial  administrators  and 
build  on  recognized,  established  foundations  rather 
than  from  entirely  new  and  theoretical  plans. 

The  real  effort  to  modernize  Africa  should  be 
through  schools  rather  than  churches.  Within  ten 
years,  twenty  million  black  children  ought  to  be  in 
school.  Within  a  generation  young  Africa  should 
know  the  essential  outlines  of  modern  culture  and 
groups  of  bright  African  students  could  be  going  to  the 
world's  great  universities.  From  the  beginning  the  ac 
tual  general  government  should  use  both  colored  and 
white  officials  and  later  natives  should  be  worked  in. 
Taxation  and  industry  could  follow  the  newer  ideals  of 
industrial  democracy,  avoiding  private  land  monopoly 
and  poverty,  and  promoting  co-operation  in  produc 
tion  and  the  socialization  of  income.  Difficulties  as 
to  capital  and  revenue  would  be  far  less  than  many 
imagine.  If  a  capable  English  administrator  of  Brit 
ish  Nigeria  could  with  $1,500  build  up  a  cocoa  indus 
try  of  twenty  million  dollars  annually,  what  might 


72  DARKWATER 

not  be  done  in  all  Africa,  without  gin,  thieves,  and 
hypocrisy  ? 

Capital  could  not  only  be  accumulated  in  Africa, 
but  attracted  from  the  white  world,  with  one  great 
difference  from  present  usage :  no  return  so  fabulous 
would  be  offered  that  civilized  lands  would  be  tempted 
to  divert  to  colonial  trade  and  invest  materials  and 
labor  needed  by  the  masses  at  home,  but  rather  would 
receive  the  same  modest  profits  as  legitimate  home 
industry  offers. 

There  is  no  sense  in  asserting  that  the  ideal  of  an 
African  State,  thus  governed  and  directed  toward 
independence  and  self-government,  is  impossible  of 
realization.  The  first  great  essential  is  that  the  civi 
lized  world  believe  in  its  possibility.  By  reason  of 
a  crime  (perhaps  the  greatest  crime  in  human  history) 
the  modern  world  has  been  systematically  taught  to 
despise  colored  peoples.  Men  of  education  and  de 
cency  ask,  and  ask  seriously,  if  it  is  really  possible 
to  uplift  Africa.  Are  Negroes  human,  or,  if  hu 
man,  developed  far  enough  to  absorb,  even  under 
benevolent  tutelage,  any  appreciable  part  of  modern 
culture?  Has  not  the  experiment  been  tried  in  Haiti 
and  Liberia,  and  failed? 

One  cannot  ignore  the  extraordinary  fact  that  a 
world  campaign  beginning  with  the  slave-trade  and 
ending  with  the  refusal  to  capitalize  the  word  "  Ne 
gro,"  leading  through  a  passionate  defense  of  slav 
ery  by  attributing  every  bestiality  to  blacks  and  finally 
culminating  in  the  evident  modern  profit  which  lies  in 
degrading  blacks, — all  this  has  unconsciously  trained 


THE  HANDS  OF  ETHIOPIA  73 

millions  of  honest,  modern  men  into  the  belief  that 
black  folk  are  sub-human.  This  belief  is  not  based 
on  science,  else  it  would  be  held  as  a  postulate  of 
the  most  tentative  kind,  ready  at  any  time  to  be 
withdrawn  in  the  face  of  facts;  the  belief  is  not  based 
on  history,  for  it  is  absolutely  contradicted  by  Egyp 
tian,  Greek,  Roman,  Byzantine,  and  Arabian  experi 
ence;  nor  is  the  belief  based  on  any  careful  survey  of 
the  social  development  of  men  of  Negro  blood  to-day 
in  Africa  and  America.  It  is  simply  passionate,  deep- 
seated  heritage,  and  as  such  can  be  moved  by  neither 
argument  nor  fact.  Only  faith  in  humanity  will  lead 
the  world  to  rise  above  its  present  color  prejudice. 

Those  who  do  believe  in  men,  who  know  what  black 
men  have  done  in  human  history,  who  have  taken  pains 
to  follow  even  superficially  the  story  of  the  rise  of  the 
Negro  in  Africa,  the  West  Indies,  and  the  Americas 
of  our  day  know  that  our  modern  contempt  of  Ne 
groes  rests  upon  no  scientific  foundation  worth  a 
moment's  attention.  It  is  nothing  more  than  a  vicious 
habit  of  mind.  It  could  as  easily  be  overthrown  as 
our  belief  in  war,  as  our  international  hatreds,  as 
our  old  conception  of  the  status  of  women,  as  our  fear 
of  educating  the  masses,  and  as  our  belief  in  the 
necessity  of  poverty.  We  can,  if  we  will,  inaugurate 
on  the  Dark  Continent  a  last  great  crusade  for  hu 
manity.  With  Africa  redeemed  Asia  would  be  safe 
and  Europe  indeed  triumphant. 

I  have  not  mentioned  North  and  South  Africa,  be 
cause  my  eye  was  centered  on  the  main  mass  of  the 
Negro  race.  Yet  it  is  clear  that  for  the  development 


74  DARKWATER 

of  Central  Africa,  Egypt  should  be  free  and  inde 
pendent,  there  along  the  highway  to  a  free  and  inde 
pendent  India;  while  Morocco,  Algeria,  Tunis,  and 
Tripoli  must  become  a  part  of  Europe,  with  modern 
development  and  home  rule.  South  Africa,  stripped  of 
its  black  serfs  and  their  lands,  must  admit  the  resi 
dent  natives  and  colored  folk  to  its  body  politic  as 
equals. 

The  hands  which  Ethiopia  shall  soon  stretch  out 
unto  God  are  not  mere  hands  of  helplessness  and  sup 
plication,  but  rather  are  they  hands  of  pain  and  prom 
ise;  hard,  gnarled,  and  muscled  for  the  world's  real 
work;  they  are  hands  of  fellowship  for  the  half -sub 
merged  masses  of  a  distempered  world ;  they  are  hands 
of  helpfulness  for  an  agonized  God! 

Twenty  centuries  before  Christ  a  great  cloud  swept 
over  seas  and  settled  on  Africa,  darkening  and  well- 
nigh  blotting  out  the  culture  of  the  land  of  Egypt. 
For  half  a  thousand  years  it  rested  there,  until  a 
black  woman,  Queen  Nefertari,  "  the  most  venerated 
figure  in  Egyptian  history,"  rose  to  the  throne  of  the 
Pharaohs  and  redeemed  the  world  and  her  people. 
Twenty  centuries  after  Christ,  Black  Africa, — pros 
trated,  raped,  and  shamed,  lies  at  the  feet  of  the  con 
quering  Philistines  of  Europe.  Beyond  the  awful  sea 
a  black  woman  is  weeping  and  waiting,  with  her  sons 
on  her  breast.  What  shall  the  end  be?  The  world- 
old  and  fearful  things, — war  and  wealth,  murder  and 
luxury?  Or  shall  it  be  a  new  thing, — a  new  peace 
and  a  new  democracy  of  all  races, — a  great  humanity 
of  equal  men?  " Semper  novi  quid  ex  Africa! " 


The  Princess  of  the  Hither  A 

Her  soul  was  beautiful,  wherefore  she  kept  it  veiled  in 
lightly-laced  humility  and  fear,  out  of  which  peered 
anxiously  and  anon  the  white  and  blue  and  pale-gold  of 
her  face, — beautiful  as  daybreak  or  as  the  laughing  of 
a  child.  She  sat  in  the  Hither  Isles,  well  walled  be 
tween  the  This  and  Now,  upon  a  low  and  silver  throne, 
and  leaned  upon  its  armposts,  sadly  looking  upward 
toward  the  sun.  Now  the  Hither  Isles  are  flat  and  cold 
and  swampy,  with  drear-drab  light  and  all  manner  of 
slimy,  creeping  things,  and  piles  of  dirt  and  clouds  of 
flying  dust  and  sordid  scraping  and  feeding  and  noise. 

She  hated  them  and  ever  as  her  hands  and  busy  feet 
swept  back  the  dust  and  slime  her  soul  sat  silver-throned, 
staring  toward  the  great  hill  to  the  westward,  which 
shone  so  brilliant-golden  beneath  the  sunlight  and  above 
the  sea. 

The  sea  moaned  and  with  it  moaned  the  princess'  soul, 
for  she  was  lonely, — very,  very  lonely,  and  full  weary 
of  the  monotone  of  life.  So  she  was  glad  to  see  a  mov 
ing  in  Yonder  Kingdom  on  the  mountainside,  where  the 
sun  shone  warm,  and  when  the  king  of  Yonder  Kingdom, 
silken  in  robe  and  golden-crowned  and  warded  by  his 
hound,  walked  down  along  the  restless  waters  and  sat 
beside  the  armpost  of  her  throne,  she  wondered  why  she 
could  not  love  him  and  fly  with  him  up  the  shining  moun 
tain's  side,  out  of  the  dirt  and  dust  that  nested  between 
the  This  and  Now.  She  looked  at  him  and  tried  to  be 
glad,  for  he  was  bonny  and  good  to  look  upon,  this 
king  of  Yonder  Kingdom, — tall  and  straight,  thin-lipped 
and  white  and  tawny.  So,  again,  this  last  day,  she 
strove  to  burn  life  into  his  singularly  sodden  clay, — to 

75 


76  DARKWATER 

put  his  icy  soul  aflame  wherewith  to  warm  her  own,  to 
set  his  senses  singing.  Vacantly  he  heard  her  winged 
words,  staring  and  curling  his  long  mustaches  with 
vast  thoughtfulness.  Then  he  said : 

"  We've  found  more  gold  in  Yonder  Kingdom." 

"  Hell  seize  your  gold !  "  blurted  the  princess. 

"  No, — it's  mine,"  he  maintained  stolidly. 

She  raised  her  eyes.  "  It  belongs,"  she  said,  "  to  the 
Empire  of  the  Sun." 

"  Nay, — the  Sun  belongs  to  us,"  said  the  king  calmly 
as  he  glanced  to  where  Yonder  Kingdom  blushed  above 
the  sea.  She  glanced,  too,  and  a  softness  crept  into  her 
eyes. 

"  No,  no,"  she  murmured  as  with  hesitating  pause  she 
raised  her  eyes  above  the  sea,  above  the  hill,  up  into  the 
sky  where  the  sun  hung  silent  and  splendid.  Its  robes 
were  heaven's  blue,  lined  and  broidered  in  living  flame, 
and  its  crown  was  one  vast  jewel,  glistening  in  glittering 
glory  that  made  the  sun's  own  face  a  blackness, — the 
blackness  of  utter  light.  With  blinded,  tear-filled  eyes 
she  peered  into  that  formless  black  and  burning  face  and 
sensed  in  its  soft,  sad  gleam  unfathomed  understanding. 
With  sudden,  wild  abandon  she  stretched  her  arms 
toward  it  appealing,  beseeching,  entreating,  and  lo ! 

"  Niggers  and  dagoes,"  said  the  king  of  Yonder  King 
dom,  glancing  carelessly  backward  and  lighting  in  his 
lips  a  carefully  rolled  wisp  of  fragrant  tobacco.  She 
looked  back,  too,  but  in  half-wondering  terror,  for  it 
seemed — 

A  beggar  man  was  creeping  across  the  swamp,  shuf 
fling  through  the  dirt  and  slime.  He  was  little  and  bald 
and  black,  rough-clothed,  sodden  with  dirt,  and  bent  with 
toil.  Yet  withal  something  she  sensed  about  him  and  it 
seemed, — 

The  king  of  Yonder  Kingdom  lounged  more  comfort 
ably  beside  the  silver  throne  and  let  curl  a  tiny  trail  of 
light-blue  smoke. 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  THE  HITHER  ISLES       77 

"  I  hate  beggars,"  he  said,  "  especially  brown  and 
black  ones."  And  he  then  pointed  at  the  beggar's  ret 
inue  and  laughed, — an  unpleasant  laugh,  welded  of  con 
tempt  and  amusement.  The  princess  looked  and  shrank 
on  her  throne.  He,  the  beggar  man,  was — was  what? 
But  his  retinue, — that  squalid,  sordid,  parti-colored 
band  of  vacant,  dull-faced  filth  and  viciousness — was 
writhing  over  the  land,  and  he  and  they  seemed  al 
most  crouching  underneath  the  scorpion  lash  of  one 
tall  skeleton,  that  looked  like  Death,  and  the  twisted 
woman  whom  men  called  Pain.  Yet  they  all  walked  as 
one. 

The  king  of  Yonder  Kingdom  laughed,  but  the  princess 
shrank  on  her  throne,  and  the  king  on  seeing  her  thus, 
took  a  gold-piece  from  out  of  his  purse  and  tossed  it 
carelessly  to  the  passing  throng.  She  watched  it  with 
fascinated  eyes, — how  it  rose  and  sailed  and  whirled 
and  struggled  in  the  air,  then  seemed  to  burst,  and  up 
ward  flew  its  light  and  sheen  and  downward  dropped 
its  dross.  She  glanced  at  the  king,  but  he  was  lighting 
a  match.  She  watched  the  dross  wallow  in  the  slime,  but 
the  sunlight  fell  on  the  back  of  the  beggar's  neck,  and 
he  turned  his  head. 

The  beggar  passing  afar  turned  his  head  and  the  prin 
cess  straightened  on  her  throne ;  he  turned  his  head  and 
she  shivered  forward  on  her  silver  seat;  he  looked  upon 
her  full  and  slow  and  suddenly  she  saw  within  that  form 
less  black  and  burning  face  the  same  soft,  glad  gleam 
of  utter  understanding,  seen  so  many  times  before.  She 
saw  the  suffering  of  endless  years  and  endless  love  that 
softened  it.  She  saw  the  .burning  passion  of  the  sun 
and  with  it  the  cold,  unbending  duty-deeds  of  upper 
air.  All  she  had  seen  and  dreamed  of  seeing  in  the  ris 
ing,  blazing  sun  she  saw  now  again  and  with  it  myriads 
more  of  human  tenderness,  of  longing,  and  of  love.  So, 
then,  she  knew.  She  rose  as  to  a  dream  come  true,  with 
solemn  face  and  waiting  eyes. 


78  DARKWATER 

With  her  rose  the  king  of  Yonder  Kingdom,  almost 
eagerly. 

"You'll  come?"  he  cried.  "You'll  come  and  see  my 
gold  ? "  And  then  in  sudden  generosity,  he  added  : 
"  You'll  have  a  golden  throne, — up  there — when  we 
marry." 

But  she,  looking  up  and  on  with  radiant  face,  answered 
softly :  "  I  come." 

So  down  and  up  and  on  they  mounted, — the  black 
beggar  man  and  his  cavalcade  of  Death  and  Pain,  and 
then  a  space ;  and  then  a  lone,  black  hound  that  nosed  and 
whimpered  as  he  ran,  and  then  a  space;  and  then  the 
king  of  Yonder  Kingdom  in  his  robes,  and  then  a  space; 
and  last  the  princess  of  the  Hither  Isles,  with  face  set 
sunward  and  lovelight  in  her  eyes. 

And  so  they  marched  and  struggled  on  and  up  through 
endless  years  and  spaces  and  ever  the  black  beggar  looked 
back  past  death  and  pain  toward  the  maid  and  ever  the 
maid  strove  forward  with  lovelit  eyes,  but  ever  the  great 
and  silken  shoulders  of  the  king  of  Yonder  Kingdom 
arose  between  the  princess  and  the  sun  like  a  cloud  of 
storms. 

Now,  finally,  they  neared  unto  the  hillside's  topmost 
shoulder  and  there  most  eagerly  the  king  bent  to  the 
bowels  of  the  earth  and  bared  its  golden  entrails, — all 
green  and  gray  and  rusted — while  the  princess  strained 
her  pitiful  eyes  aloft  to  where  the  beggar,  set  'twixt 
Death  and  Pain,  whirled  his  slim  back  against  the  glory 
of  the  setting  sun  and  stood  somber  in  his  grave  majesty, 
enhaloed  and  transfigured,  outstretching  his  long  arms, 
and  around  all  heaven  glittered  jewels  in  a  cloth  of 
gold. 

A  while  the  princess  stood  and  moaned  in  mad  amaze, 
then  with  one  wilful  wrench  she  bared  the  white  flowers 
of  her  breast  and  snatching  forth  her  own  red  heart  held 
it  with  one  hand  aloft  while  with  the  other  she  gathered 
close  her  robe  and  poised  herself. 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  THE  HITHER  ISLES       79 

The  king  of  Yonder  Kingdom  looked  upward  quickly, 
curiously,  still  fingering  the  earth,  and  saw  the  offer  of 
her  bleeding  heart. 

"  It's  a  Negro !  "  he  growled  darkly ;  "  it  may  not  be." 

The  woman  quivered. 

"  It's  a  nigger !  "  he  repeated  fiercely.  "  It's  neither 
God  nor  man,  but  a  nigger ! " 

The  princess  stepped  forward. 

The  king  grasped  his  sword  and  looked  north  and 
east;  he  raised  his  sword  and  looked  south  and  west. 

"  I  seek  the  sun,"  the  princess  sang,  and  started  into 
the  west. 

"Never!"  cried  the  king  of  Yonder  Kingdom,  "for 
such  were  blasphemy  and  defilement  and  the  making  of 
all  evil." 

So,  raising  his  great  sword  he  struck  with  all  his  might, 
and  more.  Down  hissed  the  blow  and  it  bit  that  little, 
white,  heart-holding  hand  until  it  flew  armless  and  dis- 
bodied  up  through  the  sunlit  air.  Down  hissed  the  blow 
and  it  clove  the  whimpering  hound  until  his  last  shriek 
shook  the  stars.  Down  hissed  the  blow  and  it  rent  the 
earth.  It  trembled,  fell  apart,  and  yawned  to  a  chasm 
wide  as  earth  from  heaven,  deep  as  hell,  and  empty, 
cold,  and  silent. 

On  yonder  distant  shore  blazed  the  mighty  Empire  of 
the  Sun  in  warm  and  blissful  radiance,  while  on  this 
side,  in  shadows  cold  and  dark,  gloomed  the  Hither 
Isles  and  the  hill  that  once  was  golden,  but  now  was 
green  and  slimy  dross ;  all  below  was  the  sad  and  moan 
ing  sea,  while  between  the  Here  and  There  flew  the 
severed  hand  and  dripped  the  bleeding  heart. 

Then  up  from  the  soul  of  the  princess  welled  a  cry 
of  dark  despair, — such  a  cry  as  only  babe-raped  mothers 
know  and  murdered  loves.  Poised  on  the  crumbling  edge 
of  that  great  nothingness  the  princess  hung,  hungering 
with  her  eyes  and  straining  her  fainting  ears  against  the 
awful  splendor  of  the  sky. 


8o  DARKWATER 

Out  from  the  slime  and  shadows  groped  the  king, 
thundering :  "  Back— don't  be  a  fool !  " 

But  down  through  the  thin  ether  thrilled  the  still  and 
throbbing  warmth  of  heaven's  sun,  whispering  "  Leap ! " 

And  the  princess  leapt. 


IV 
OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH 

FOR  fifteen  years  I  was  a  teacher  of  youth.  They 
were  years  out  of  the  fullness  and  bloom  of  my 
younger  manhood.  They  were  years  mingled  of  half 
breathless  work,  of  anxious  self-questionings,  of 
planning  and  replanning,  of  disillusion,  or  mounting 
wonder. 

The  teacher's  life  is  a  double  one.  He  stands  in  a 
certain  fear.  He  tends  to  be  stilted,  almost  dishonest, 
veiling  himself  before  those  awful  eyes.  Not  the 
eyes  of  Almighty  God  are  so  straight,  so  penetrating, 
so  all-seeing  as  the  wonder-swept  eyes  of  youth.  You 
walk  into  a  room :  to  the  left  is  a  tall  window,  bright 
with  colors  of  crimson  and  gold  and  sunshine.  Here 
are  rows  of  books  and  there  is  a  table.  Somber  black 
boards  clothe  the  walls  to  the  right  and  beside  your 
desk  is  the  delicate  ivory  of  a  nobly  cast  head.  But 
you  see  nothing  of  this :  you  see  only  a  silence  and 
eyes, — fringed,  soft  eyes;  hard  eyes;  eyes  great  and 
small;  eyes  here  so  poignant  with  beauty  that  the 
sob  struggles  in  your  throat;  eyes  there  so  hard  with 
sorrow  that  laughter  wells  up  to  meet  and  beat  it 
back;  eyes  through  which  the  mockery  and  ridicule 
of  hell  or  some  pulse  of  high  heaven  may  suddenly 
flash.  Ah!  That  mighty  pause  before  the  class, — 
that  orison  and  benediction — how  much  of  my  life  it 
has  been  and  made. 

Si 


82  DARKWATER 

I  fought  earnestly  against  posing  before  my  class.  I 
tried  to  be  natural  and  honest  and  frank,  but  it  was 
bitter  hard.  What  would  you  say  to  a  soft,  brown 
face,  aureoled  in  a  thousand  ripples  of  gray-black 
hair,  which  knells  suddenly :  "  Do  you  trust  white 
people?"  You  do  not  and  you  know  that  you  do 
not,  much  as  you  want  to;  yet  you  rise  and  lie  and 
say  you  do;  you  must  say  it  for  her  salvation  and  the 
world's;  you  repeat  that  she  must  trust  them,  that 
most  white  folks  are  honest,  and  all  the  while  you 
are  lying  and  every  level,  silent  eye  there  knows  you 
are  lying,  and  miserably  you  sit  and  lie  on,  to  the 
greater  glory  of  God. 

I  taught  history  and  economics  and  something 
called  "  sociology  "  at  Atlanta  University,  where,  as 
our  Mr.  Webster  used  to  say,  we  professors  occupied 
settees  and  not  mere  chairs.  I  was  fortunate  with  this 
teaching  in  having  vivid  in  the  minds  of  my  pupils 
a  concrete  social  problem  of  which  we  all  were  parts 
and  which  we  desperately  desired  to  solve.  There 
was  little  danger,  then,  of  my  teaching  or  of  their 
thinking  becoming  purely  theoretical.  Work  and  wage 
were  thrilling  realities  to  us  all.  What  did  we  study? 
I  can  tell  you  best  by  taking  a  concrete  human  case, 
such  as  was  continually  leaping  to  our  eyes  and 
thought  and  demanding  understanding  and  interpreta 
tion  and  what  I  could  bring  of  prophecy. 

St.  Louis  sprawls  where  mighty  rivers  meet, — as 
broad  as  Philadelphia,  but  three  stories  high  instead 
of  two,  with  wider  streets  and  dirtier  atmosphere, 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  83 

over  the  dull-brown  of  wide,  calm  rivers.  The  city 
overflows  into  the  valleys  of  Illinois  and  lies  there, 
writhing  under  its  grimy  cloud.  The  other  city  is 
dusty  and  hot  beyond  all  dream, — a  feverish  Pitts- 
burg  in  the  Mississippi  Valley — a  great,  ruthless,  ter 
rible  thing!  It  is  the  sort  that  crushes  man  and  in 
vokes  some  living  super-man, — a  giant  of  things  done, 
a  clang  of  awful  accomplishment. 

Three  men  came  wandering  across  this  place.  They 
were  neither  kings  nor  wise  men,  but  they  came  with 
every  significance — perhaps  even  greater — than  that 
which  the  kings  bore  in  the  days  of  old.  There  was 
one  who  came  from  the  North, — brawny  and  riotous 
with  energy,  a  man  of  concentrated  power,  who  held 
all  the  thunderbolts  of  modern  capital  in  his  great  fists 
and  made  flour  and  meat,  iron  and  steel,  cunning  chem 
icals,  wood,  paint  and  paper,  transforming  to  endless 
tools  a  disemboweled  earth.  He  was  one  who  saw 
nothing,  knew  nothing,  sought  nothing  but  the  mak 
ing  and  buying  of  that  which  sells;  who  out  from  the 
magic  of  his  hand  rolled  over  miles  of  iron  road,  ton 
upon  ton  of  food  and  metal  and  wood,  of  coal  and 
oil  and  lumber,  until  the  thronging  of  knotted  ways 
in  East  and  real  St.  Louis  was  like  the  red,  festering 
ganglia  of  some  mighty  heart. 

Then  from  the  East  and  called  by  the  crash  of 
thunderbolts  and  forked-flame  came  the  Unwise  Man, 
— unwise  by  the  theft  of  endless  ages,  but  as  human  as 
anything  God  ever  made.  He  was  the  slave  for  the 
miracle  maker.  It  was  he  that  the  thunderbolts  struck 
and  electrified  into  gasping  energy.  The  rasp  of  his 


84  DARKWATER 

hard  breathing  shook  the  midnights  of  all  this  end 
less  valley  and  the  pulse  of  his  powerful  arms  set 
the  great  nation  to  trembling. 

And  then,  at  last,  out  of  the  South,  like  a  still, 
small  voice,  came  the  third  man, — black,  with  great 
eyes  and  greater  memories;  hesitantly  eager  and  yet 
with  the  infinite  softness  and  ancient  calm  which  come 
from  that  eternal  race  whose  history  is  not  the  his 
tory  of  a  day,  but  of  endless  ages.  Here,  surely, 
was  fit  meeting-place  for  these  curiously  intent  forces, 
for  these  epoch-making  and  age-twisting  forces,  for 
these  human  feet  on  their  super-human  errands. 

Yesterday  I  rode  in  East  St.  Louis.  It  is  the  kind 
of  place  one  quickly  recognizes, — tireless  and  with 
no  restful  green  of  verdure;  hard  and  uneven  of 
street;  crude,  cold,  and  even  hateful  of  aspect;  con 
ventional,  of  course,  in  its  business  quarter,  but 
quickly  beyond  one  sees  the  ruts  and  the  hollows,  the 
stench  of  ill-tamed  sewerage,  unguarded  railroad 
crossings,  saloons  outnumbering  churches  and 
churches  catering  to  saloons;  homes  impudently  strait 
and  new,  prostitutes  free  and  happy,  gamblers  in 
paradise,  the  town  "  wide  open/'  shameless  and  frank; 
great  factories  pouring  out  stench,  filth,  and  flame — 
these  and  all  other  things  so  familiar  in  the  world 
market  places,  where  industry  triumphs  over  thought 
and  products  overwhelm  men.  May  I  tell,  too,  how 
yesterday  I  rode  in  this  city  past  flame-swept  walls 
and  over  gray  ashes;  in  streets  almost  wet  with  blood 
and  beside  ruins,  where  the  bones  of  dead  men  new- 
bleached  peered  out  at  me  in  sullen  wonder  ? 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  85 

Across  the  river,  in  the  greater  city,  where  bronze 
St.  Louis, — that  just  and  austere  king — looks  with 
angry,  fear-swept  eyes  down  from  the  rolling  heights 
of  Forest  Park,  which  knows  him  not  nor  heeds 
him,  there  is  something  of  the  same  thing,  but  this 
city  is  larger  and  older  and  the  forces  of  evil  have 
had  some  curbing  from  those  who  have  seen  the 
vision  and  panted  for  life;  but  eastward  from  St. 
Louis  there  is  a  land  of  no  taxes  for  great  industries ; 
there  is  a  land  where  you  may  buy  grafting  politi 
cians  at  far  less  rate  than  you  would  pay  for  fran 
chises  or  privileges  in  a  modern  town.  There,  too, 
you  may  escape  the  buying  of  indulgences  from  the 
great  terminal  fist,  which  squeezes  industry  out  of 
St.  Louis.  In  fact,  East  St.  Louis  is  a  paradise  for 
high  and  frequent  dividends  and  for  the  piling  up 
of  wealth  to  be  spent  in  St.  Louis  and  Chicago  and 
New  York  and  when  the  world  is  sane  again,  across 
the  seas. 

So  the  Unwise  Men  pouring  out  of  the  East, — fall 
ing,  scrambling,  rushing  into  America  at  the  rate  of 
a  million  a  year, — ran,  walked,  and  crawled  to  this 
maelstrom  of  the  workers.  They  garnered  higher 
wage  than  ever  they  had  before,  but  not  all  of  it 
came  in  cash.  A  part,  and  an  insidious  part,  was 
given  to  them  transmuted  into  whiskey,  prostitutes, 
and  games  of  chance.  They  laughed  and  disported 
themselves.  God!  Had  not  their  mothers  wept 
enough?  It  was  a  good  town.  There  was  no  veil  of 
hypocrisy  here,  but  a  wickedness,  frank,  ungilded,  and 
open.  To  be  sure,  there  were  things  sometimes  to  re- 


86  DARKWATER 

veal  the  basic  savagery  and  thin  veneer.  Once,  for 
instance,  a  man  was  lynched  for  brawling  on  the 
public  square  of  the  county  seat;  once  a  mayor  who 
sought  to  "  clean  up  "  was  publicly  assassinated ;  al 
ways  there  was  theft  and  rumors  of  theft,  until  St. 
Clair  County  was  a  hissing  in  good  men's  ears;  but 
always,  too,  there  were  good  wages  and  jolly  hood 
lums  and  unchecked  wassail  of  Saturday  nights. 
Gamblers,  big  and  little,  rioted  in  East  St.  Louis. 
The  little  gamblers  used  cards  and  roulette  wrheels  and 
filched  the  weekly  wage  of  the  workers.  The  greater 
gamblers  used  meat  and  iron  and  undid  the  founda 
tions  of  the  world.  All  the  gods  of  chance  flaunted 
their  wild  raiment  here,  above  the  brown  flood  of  the 
Mississippi. 

Then  the  world  changed;  then  civilization,  built  for 
culture,  rebuilt  itself  for  wilful  murder  in  Europe, 
Asia,  America,  and  the  Southern  Seas.  Hands  that 
made  food  made  powder,  and  iron  for  railways  was 
iron  for  guns.  The  wants  of  common  men  were  for 
gotten  before  the  groan  of  giants.  Streams  of  gold, 
lost  from  the  world's  workers,  filtered  and  trickled 
into  the  hands  of  gamblers  and  put  new  power  into 
the  thunderbolts  of  East  St.  Louis. 

Wages  had  been  growing  before  the  World  War. 
Slowly  but  remorselessly  the  skilled  and  intelligent, 
banding  themselves,  had  threatened  the  coffers  of  the 
mighty,  and  slowly  the  mighty  had  disgorged.  Even 
the  common  workers,  the  poor  and  unlettered,  had 
again  and  again  gripped  the  sills  of  the  city  walls  and 
pulled  themselves  to  their  chins;  but,  alas!  there  were 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  87 

so  many  hands  and  so  many  mouths  and  the  feet  of 
the  Disinherited  kept  coming  across  the  wet  paths  of 
the  sea  to  this  old  El  Dorado. 

War  brought  subtle  changes.  Wages  stood  still 
while  prices  fattened.  It  was  not  that  the  white 
American  worker  was  threatened  with  starvation,  but 
it  was  what  was,  after  all,  a  more  important  question, 
— whether  or  not  he  should  lose  his  front-room  and 
victrola  and  even  the  dream  of  a  Ford  car. 

There  came  a  whirling  and  scrambling  among  the 
workers, — they  fought  each  other;  they  climbed  on 
each  others'  backs.  The  skilled  and  intelligent,  band 
ing  themselves  even  better  than  before,  bargained  with 
the  men  of  might  and  held  them  by  bitter  threats; 
the  less  skilled  and  more  ignorant  seethed  at  the  bot 
tom  and  tried,  as  of  old,  to  bring  it  about  that  the 
ignorant  and  unlettered  should  learn  to  stand  together 
against  both  capital  and  skilled  labor. 

It  was  here  that  there  came  out  of  the  East  a  beam 
of  unearthly  light, — a  triumph  of  possible  good  in 
evil  so  strange  that  the  workers  hardly  believed  it. 
Slowly  they  saw  the  gates  of  Ellis  Island  closing, 
slowly  the  footsteps  of  the  yearly  million  men  be 
came  fainter  and  fainter,  until  the  stream  of  immi 
grants  overseas  was  stopped  by  the  shadow  of  death 
at  the  very  time  when  new  murder  opened  new  mar 
kets  over  all  the  world  to  American  industry;  and  the 
giants  with  the  thunderbolts  stamped  and  raged  and 
peered  out  across  the  world  and  called  for  men  and 
evermore, — men ! 

The  Unwise  Men  laughed  and  squeezed  reluctant 


88  DARKWATER 

dollars  out  of  the  fists  of  the  mighty  and  saw  in  their 
dream  the  vision  of  a  day  when  labor,  as  they  knew 
it,  should  come  into  its  own;  saw  this  day  and  saw  it 
with  justice  and  with  right,  save  for  one  thing,  and 
that  was  the  sound  of  the  moan  of  the  Disinherited, 
who  still  lay  without  the  walls.  When  they  heard 
this  moan  and  saw  that  it  came  not  across  the  seas, 
they  were  at  first  amazed  and  said  it  was  not  true; 
and  then  they  were  mad  and  said  it  should  not  be. 
Quickly  they  turned  and  looked  into  the  red  blackness 
of  the  South  and  in  their  hearts  were  fear  and  hate ! 

What  did  they  see  ?  They  saw  something  at  which 
they  had  been  taught  to  laugh  and  make  sport;  they 
saw  that  which  the  heading  of  every  newspaper  column, 
the  lie  of  every  cub  reporter,  the  exaggeration  of 
every  press  dispatch,  and  the  distortion  of  every  speech 
and  book  had  taught  them  was  a  mass  of  despicable 
men,  inhuman;  at  best,  laughable;  at  worst,  the  meat 
of  mobs  and  fury. 

What  did  they  see?  They  saw  nine  and  one-half 
millions  of  human  beings.  They  saw  the  spawn  of 
slavery,  ignorant  by  law  and  by  deviltry,  crushed  by 
insult  and  debauched  by  systematic  and  criminal  in 
justice.  They  saw  a  people  whose  helpless  women 
have  been  raped  by  thousands  and  whose  men  lynched 
by  hundreds  in  the  face  of  a  sneering  world.  They 
saw  a  people  with  heads  bloody,  but  unbowed,  work 
ing  faithfully  at  wages  fifty  per  cent,  lower  than  the 
wages  of  the  nation  and  under  conditions  which  shame 
civilization,  saving  homes,  training  children,  hoping 
against  hope.  They  saw  the  greatest  industrial  mir- 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  89 

acle  of  modern  days, — slaves  transforming  themselves 
to  freemen  and  climbing  out  of  perdition  by  their 
own  efforts,  despite  the  most  contemptible  opposition 
God  ever  saw, — they  saw  all  this  and  what  they  saw 
the  distraught  employers  of  America  saw,  too. 

The  North  called  to  the  South.  A  scream  of  rage 
went  up  from  the  cotton  monopolists  and  industrial 
barons  of  the  new  South.  Who  was  this  who  dared 
to  "  interfere  "  with  their  labor?  Who  sought  to  own 
their  black  slaves  but  they?  Who  honored  and  loved 
"  niggers  "  as  they  did  ? 

They  mobilized  all  the  machinery  of  modern  oppres 
sion  :  taxes,  city  ordinances,  licenses,  state  laws,  mu 
nicipal  regulations,  wholesale  police  arrests  and,  of 
course,  the  peculiarly  Southern  method  of  the  mob 
and  the  lyncher.     They  appealed  franctically  to  the 
United   States  Government;   they  groveled  on  their 
knees  and  shed  wild  tears  at  the  "  suffering  "  of  their 
poor,  misguided  black  friends,  and  yet,  despite  this, 
the  Northern  employers  simply  had  to  offer  two  and 
three  dollars  a  day  and  from  one-quarter  to  one-half 
a  million  dark  workers  arose  and  poured  themselves 
into  the  North.     They  went  to  the  mines  of  West 
Virginia,  because  war  needs  coal;  they  went  to  the 
industries  of  New  Jersey  and  Pennsylvania,  because 
war  needs  ships  and  iron;  they  went  to  the  automo 
biles  of  Detroit  and  the  load-carrying  of   Chicago; 
and  they  went  to  East  St.  Louis. 

Now  there  came  fear  in  the  hearts  of  the  Unwise 
Men.  It  was  not  that  their  wages  were  lowered, — 
they  went  even  higher.  They  received,  not  simply 


90  DARKWATER 

a  living  wage,  but  a  wage  that  paid  for  some  of  the 
decencies,  and,  in  East  St.  Louis,  many  of  the  inde 
cencies  of  life.  What  they  feared  was  not  deprivation 
of  the  things  they  were  used  to  and  the  shadow  of 
poverty,  but  rather  the  definite  death  of  their  rising 
dreams.  But  if  fear  was  new-born  in  the  hearts 
of  the  Unwise  Men,  the  black  man  was  born  in  a 
house  of  fear;  to  him  poverty  of  the  ulgiest  and 
straitest  type  was  father,  mother,  and  blood-brother. 
He  was  slipping  stealthily  northward  to  escape  hunger 
and  insult,  the  hand  of  oppression,  and  the  shadow  of 
death. 

Here,  then,  in  the  wide  valley  which  Father  Mar- 
quette  saw  peaceful  and  golden,  lazy  with  fruit  and 
river,  half-asleep  beneath  the  nod  of  God, — here,  then, 
was  staged  every  element  for  human  tragedy,  every 
element  of'  the  modern  economic  paradox. 

Ah!  That  hot,  wide  plain  of  East  St.  Louis  is  a 
gripping  thing.  The  rivers  are  dirty  with  sweat  and 
toil  and  lip,  like  lakes,  along  the  low  and  burdened 
shores;  flatboats  ramble  and  thread  among  them, 
and  above  the  steamers  bridges  swing  on  great  arches 
of  steel,  striding  with  mighty  grace  from  shore  to 
shore.  Everywhere  are  brick  kennels, — tall,  black 
and  red  chimneys,  tongues  of  flame.  The  ground  is 
littered  with  cars  and  iron,  tracks  and  trucks,  boxes 
and  crates,  metals  and  coal  and  rubber.  Nature-de 
fying  cranes,  grim  elevators  rise  above  pile  on  pile 
of  black  and  grimy  lumber.  And  ever  below  is  the 
water, — wide  and  silent,  gray-brown  and  yellow. 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  91 

This  is  the  stage  for  the  tragedy :  the  armored  might 
of  the  modern  world  urged  by  the  bloody  needs  of 
the  world  wants,  fevered  today  by  a  fabulous  vision 
of  gain  and  needing  only  hands,  hands,  hands !  Fear 
of  loss  and  greed  of  gain  in  the  hearts  of  the  giants; 
the  clustered  cunning  of  the  modern  workman,  skilled 
as  artificer  and  skilled  in  the  rhythm  of  the  habit  of 
work,  tasting  the  world's  good  and  panting  for  more ; 
fear  of  poverty  and  hate  of  "  scabs  "  in  the  hearts  of 
the  workers;  the  dumb  yearning  in  the  hearts  of  the 
oppressed;  the  echo  of  laughter  heard  at  the  foot  of 
the  Pyramids;  the  faithful,  plodding  slouch  of  the 
laborers;  fear  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  in  the  hearts 
of  black  men. 

We  ask,  and  perhaps  there  is  no  answer,  how  far 
may  the  captain  of  the  world's  industry  do  his  deeds, 
despite  the  grinding  tragedy  of  its  doing?  How  far 
may  men  fight  for  the  beginning  of  comfort,  out  be 
yond  the  horrid  shadow  of  poverty,  at  the  cost  of 
starving  other  and  what  the  world  calls  lesser  men? 
How  far  may  those  who  reach  up  out  of  the  slime 
that  fills  the  pits  of  the  world's  damned  compel  men 
with  loaves  to  divide  with  men  who  starve? 

The  answers  to  these  questions  are  hard,  but  yet 
one  answer  looms  above  all, — justice  lies  with  the 
lowest;  the  plight  of  the  lowest  man, — the  plight  of 
the  black  man — deserves  the  first  answer,  and  the 
plight  of  the  giants  of  industry,  the  last. 

Little  cared  East  St.  Louis  for  all  this  bandying 
of  human  problems,  so  long  as  its  grocers  and  saloon 
keepers  flourished  and  its  industries  steamed  and 


92  DARKWATER 

screamed  and  smoked  and  its  bankers  grew  rich.  Stu 
pidity,  license,  and  graft  sat  enthroned  in  the  City 
Hall.  The  new  black  folk  were  exploited  as  cheer 
fully  as  white  Polacks  and  Italians ;  the  rent  of  shacks 
mounted  merrily,  the  street  car  lines  counted  gleeful 
gains,  and  the  crimes  of  white  men  and  black  men 
flourished  in  the  dark.  The  high  and  skilled  and  smart 
climbed  on  the  bent  backs  of  the  ignorant;  harder  the 
mass  of  laborers  strove  to  unionize  their  fellows  and 
to  bargain  with  employers. 

Nor  were  the  new  blacks  fools.  They  had  no  love 
for  nothings  in  labor;  they  had  no  wish  to  make  their 
fellows'  wage  envelopes  smaller,  but  they  were  de 
termined  to  make  their  own  larger.  They,  too,  were 
willing  to  join  in  the  new  union  movement.  But  the 
unions  did  not  want  them.  Just  as  employers  monopo 
lized  meat  and  steel,  so  they  sought  to  monopolize  la 
bor  and  beat  a  giant's  bargain.  In  the  higher  trades 
they  succeeded.  The  best  electrician  in  the  city  was 
refused  admittance  to  the  union  and  driven  from  the 
town  because  he  was  black.  No  black  builder,  printer, 
or  machinist  could  join  a  union  or  work  in  East  St. 
Louis,  no  matter  what  his  skill  or  character.  But  out 
of  the  stink  of  the  stockyards  and  the  dust  of  the 
aluminum  works  and  the  sweat  of  the  lumber  yards 
the  willing  blacks  could  not  be  kept. 

They  were  invited  to  join  unions  of  the  laborers 
here  and  they  joined.  White  workers  and  black  work 
ers  struck  at  the  aluminum  works  in  the  fall  and  won 
higher  wages  and  better  hours;  then  again  in  the 
spring  they  struck  to  make  bargaining  compulsory  for 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  93 

the  employer,  but  this  time  they  fronted  new  things. 
The  conflagration  of  war  had  spread  to  America; 
government  and  court  stepped  in  and  ordered  no  hesi 
tation,  no  strikes;  the  work  must  go  on. 

Deeper  was  the  call  for  workers.  Black  men  poured 
in  and  red  anger  flamed  in  the  hearts  of  the  white 
workers.  The  anger  was  against  the  wielders  of  the 
thunderbolts,  but  here  it  was  impotent  because  em 
ployers  stood  with  the  hand  of  the  government  before 
their  faces;  it  was  against  entrenched  union  labor, 
which  had  risen  on  the  backs  of  the  unskilled  and 
unintelligent  and  on  the  backs  of  those  whom  for  any 
reason  of  race  or  prejudice  or  chicane  they  could  beat 
beyond  the  bars  of  competition;  and  finally  the  anger 
of  the  mass  of  white  workers  was  turned  toward 
these  new  black  interlopers,  who  seemed  to  come  to 
spoil  their  last  dream  of  a  great  monopoly  of  common 
labor. 

These  angers  flamed  and  the  union  leaders,  fearing 
their  fury  and  knowing  their  own  guilt,  not  only 
in  the  larger  and  subtler  matter  of  bidding  their  way 
to  power  across  the  weakness  of  their  less  fortunate 
fellows,  but  also  conscious  of  their  part  in  making 
East  St.  Louis  a  miserable  town  of  liquor  and  lust, 
leaped  quickly  to  ward  the  gathering  thunder  from 
their  own  heads.  The  thing  they  wanted  was  even  at 
their  hands:  here  were  black  men,  guilty  not  only  of 
bidding  for  jobs  which  white  men  could  have  held  at 
war  prices,  even  if  they  could  not  fill,  but  also  guilty 
of  being  black!  It  was  at  this  blackness  that  the 
unions  pointed  the  accusing  finger.  It  was  here  that 


94  DARKWATER 

they  committed  the  unpardonable  crime.  It  was  here 
that  they  entered  the  Shadow  of  Hell,  where  sud 
denly  from  a  fight  for  wage  and  protection  against 
industrial  oppression  East  St.  Louis  became  the  center 
of  the  oldest  and  nastiest  form  of  human  oppression, 
— race  hatred. 

The  whole  situation  lent  itself  to  this  terrible 
transformation.  Everything  in  the  history  of  the 
United  States,  from  slavery  to  Sunday  supplements, 
from  disfranchisement  to  residence  segregation,  from 
"  Jim-Crow  "  cars  to  a  "  Jim-Crow  "  army  draft — 
all  this  history  of  discrimination  and  insult  festered 
to  make  men  think  and  willing  to  think  that  the  vent 
ing  of  their  unbridled  anger  against  12,000,000  humble, 
upstriving  workers  was  a  way  of  settling  the  industrial 
tangle  of  the  ages.  It  was  the  logic  of  the  broken 
plate,  which,  seared  of  old  across  its  pattern,  cracks 
never  again,  save  along  the  old  destruction. 

So  hell  flamed  in  East  St.  Louis !  The  white  men 
drove  even  black  union  men  out  of  their  unions  and 
when  the  black  men,  beaten  by  night  and  assaulted, 
flew  to  arms  and  shot  back  at  the  marauders,  five 
thousand  rioters  arose  and  surged  like  a  crested  storm- 
wave,  from  noonday  until  midnight;  they  killed  and 
beat  and  murdered;  they  dashed  out  the  brains  of 
children  and  stripped  off  the  clothes  of  women;  they 
drove  victims  into  the  flames  and  hanged  the  helpless 
to  the  lighting  poles.  Fathers  were  killed  before  the 
faces  of  mothers;  children  were  burned;  heads  were 
cut  off  with  axes;  pregnant  women  crawled  and 
spawned  in  dark,  wet  fields;  thieves  went  through 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  95 

houses  and  firebrands  followed;  bodies  were  thrown 
from  bridges;  and  rocks  and  bricks  flew  through  the 
air. 

The  Negroes  fought.  They  grappled  with  the  mob 
like  beasts  at  bay.  They  drove  them  back  from  the 
thickest  cluster  of  their  homes  and  piled  the  white 
dead  on  the  street,  but  the  cunning  mob  caught  the 
black  men  between  the  factories  and  their  homes, 
where  they  knew  they  were  armed  only  with  their 
dinner  pails.  Firemen,  policemen,  and  militiamen 
stood  with  hanging  hands  or  even  joined  eagerly  with 
the  mob. 

It  was  the  old  world  horror  come  to  life  again:  all 
that  Jews  suffered  in  Spain  and  Poland;  all  that  peas 
ants  suffered  in  France,  and  Indians  in  Calcutta;  all 
that  aroused  human  deviltry  had  accomplished  in 
ages  past  they  did  in  East  St.  Louis,  while  the  rags 
of  six  thousand  half-naked  black  men  and  women 
fluttered  across  the  bridges  of  the  calm  Mississippi. 

The  white  South  laughed, — it  was  infinitely  funny 
— the  "  niggers "  who  had  gone  North  to  escape 
slavery  and  lynching  had  met  the  fury  of  the  mob 
which  they  had  fled.  Delegations  rushed  North  from 
Mississippi  and  Texas,  with  suspicious  timeliness  and 
with  great-hearted  offers  to  take  these  workers  back  to 
a  lesser  hell.  The  man  from  Greensville,  Mississippi, 
who  wanted  a  thousand  got  six,  because,  after  all, 
the  end  was  not  so  simple. 

No,  the  end  was  not  simple.  On  the  contrary,  the 
problem  raised  by  East  St.  Louis  was  curiously  com 
plex.  The  ordinary  American,  tired  of  the  persist- 


96  DARKWATER 

ence  of  "  the  Negro  problem,"  sees  only  another  anti- 
Negro  mob  and  wonders,  not  when  we  shall  settle 
this  problem,  but  when  we  shall  be  well  rid  of  it. 
The  student  of  social  things  sees  another  mile-post 
in  the  triumphant  march  of  union  labor;  he  is  sorry 
that  blood  and  rapine  should  mark  its  march, — but, 
what  will  you?  War  is  life! 

Despite  these  smug  reasonings  the  bare  facts  were 
these:  East  St.  Louis,  a  great  industrial  center,  lost 
5,000  laborers, — good,  honest,  hard-working  laborers. 
It  was  not  the  criminals,  either  black  or  white,  who 
were  driven  from  East  St.  Louis.  They  are  still 
there.  They  will  stay  there.  But  half  the  honest 
black  laborers  were  gone.  The  crippled  ranks  of  in 
dustrial  organization  in  the  mid-Mississippi  Valley 
cannot  be  recruited  from  Ellis  Island,  because  in  Eu 
rope  men  are  dead  and  maimed,  and  restoration,  when 
restoration  comes,  will  raise  a  European  demand  for 
labor  such  as  this  age  has  never  seen.  The  vision  of 
industrial  supremacy  has  come  to  the  giants  who  lead 
American  industry  and  finance.  But  it  can  never  be 
realized  unless  the  laborers  are  here  to  do  the  work, 
— the  skilled  laborers,  the  common  laborers,  the  will 
ing  laborers,  the  well-paid  laborers.  The  present 
forces,  organized  however  cunningly,  are  not  large 
enough  to  do  what  America  wants;  but  there  is  another 
group  of  laborers,  12,000,000  strong,  the  natural  heirs, 
by  every  logic  of  justice,  to  the  fruits  of  America's  in 
dustrial  advance.  They  will  be  used  simply  because 
they  must  be  used, — but  their  using  means  East  St. 
Louis ! 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  97 

Eastward  from  St.  Louis  lie  great  centers,  like 
Chicago,  Indianapolis,  Detroit,  Cleveland,  Pittsburg, 
Philadelphia,  and  New  York;  in  every  one  of  these 
and  in  lesser  centers  there  is  not  only  the  industrial 
unrest  of  war  and  revolutionized  work,  but  there  is 
the  call  for  workers,  the  coming  of  black  folk,  and 
the  deliberate  effort  to  divert  the  thoughts  of  men, 
and  particularly  of  workingmen,  into  channels  of 
race  hatred  against  blacks.  In  every  one  of  these 
centers  what  happened  in  East  St.  Louis  has  been  at 
tempted,  with  more  or  less  success.  Yet  the  Ameri 
can  Negroes  stand  today  as  the  greatest  strategic 
group  in  the  world.  Their  services  are  indispensable, 
their  temper  and  character  are  fine,  and  their  souls 
have  seen  a  vision  more  beautiful  than  any  other  mass 
of  workers.  They  may  win  back  culture  to  the  world 
if  their  strength  can  be  used  with  the  forces  of  the 
world  that  make  for  justice  and  not  against  the  hidden 
hates  that  fight  for  barbarism.  For  fight  they  must 
and  fight  they  will! 

Rising  on  wings  we  cross  again  the  rivers  of  St. 
Louis,  winding  and  threading  between  the  towers  of 
industry  that  threaten  and  drown  the  towers  of  God. 
Far,  far  beyond,  we  sight  the  green  of  fields  and  hills; 
but  ever  below  lies  the  river,  blue, — brownish-gray, 
touched  with  the  hint  of  hidden  gold.  Drifting 
through  half-flooded  lowlands,  with  shanties  and  crops 
and  stunted  trees,  past  struggling  corn  and  straggling 
village,  we  rush  toward  the  Battle  of  the  Marne  and 
the  West,  from  this  dread  Battle  of  the  East.  West 
ward,  dear  God,  the  fire  of  Thy  Mad  World  crimsons 


98  DARKWATER 

our  Heaven.    Our  answering  Hell  rolls  eastward  from 
St.  Louis. 

Here,  in  microcosm,  is  the  sort  of  economic  snarl 
that  arose  continually  for  me  and  my  pupils  to  solve. 
We  could  bring  to  its  unraveling  little  of  the  scholarly 
aloofness  and  academic  calm  of  most  white  universi 
ties.  To  us  this  thing  was  Life  and  Hope  and  Death! 

How  should  we  think  such  a  problem  through,  not 
simply  as  Negroes,  but  as  men  and  women  of  a  new 
century,  helping  to  build  a  new  world?  And  first  of 
all,  here  is  no  simple  question  of  race  antagonism. 
There  are  no  races,  in  the  sense  of  great,  separate, 
pure  breeds  of  men,  differing  in  attainment,  develop 
ment,  and  capacity.  There  are  great  groups, — now 
with  common  history,  now  with  common  interests, 
now  with  common  ancestry;  more  and  more  common 
experience  and  present  interest  drive  back  the  com 
mon  blood  and  the  world  today  consists,  not  of  races, 
but  of  the  imperial  commercial  group  of  master  capi 
talists,  international  and  predominantly  white;  the  na 
tional  middle  classes  of  the  several  nations,  white, 
yellow,  and  brown,  with  strong  blood  bonds,  common 
languages,  and  common  history;  the  international  la 
boring  class  of  all  colors;  the  backward,  oppressed 
groups  of  nature-folk,  predominantly  yellow,  brown, 
and  black. 

Two  questions  arise  from  the  work  and  relations  of 
these  groups:  how  to  furnish  goods  and  services  for 
the  wants  of  men  and  how  equitably  and  sufficiently 
to  satisfy  these  wants.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  99 

we  have  passed  in  our  day  from  a  world  that  could 
hardly  satisfy  the  physical  wants  of  the  mass  of  men, 
by  the  greatest  effort,  to  a  world  whose  technique 
supplies  enough  for  all,  if  all  can  claim  their  right. 
Our  great  ethical  question  today  is,  therefore,  how 
may  we  justly  distribute  the  world's  goods  to  satisfy 
the  necessary  wants  of  the  mass  of  men. 

What  hinders  the  answer  to  this  question?  Dis 
likes,  jealousies,  hatreds, — undoubtedly  like  the  race 
hatred  in  East  St.  Louis;  the  jealousy  of  English  and 
German;  the  dislike  of  the  Jew  and  the  Gentile.  But 
these  are,  after  all,  surface  disturbances,  sprung  from 
ancient  habit  more  than  from  present  reason.  They 
persist  and  are  encouraged  because  of  deeper,  mightier 
currents.  If  the  white  workingmen  of  East  St.  Louis 
felt  sure  that  Negro  workers  would  not  and  could 
not  take  the  bread  and  cake  from  their  mouths,  their 
race  hatred  would  never  have  been  translated  into 
murder.  If  the  black  workingmen  of  the  South  could 
earn  a  decent  living  under  decent  circumstances  at 
home,  they  would  not  be  compelled  to  underbid  their 
white  fellows. 

Thus  the  shadow  of  hunger,  in  a  world  which  never 
needs  to  be  hungry,  drives  us  to  war  and  murder  and 
hate.  But  why  does  hunger  shadow  so  vast  a  mass 
of  men?  Manifestly  because  in  the  great  organizing 
of  men  for  work  a  few  of  the  participants  come  out 
with  more  wealth  than  they  can  possibly  use,  while 
a  vast  number  emerge  with  less  than  can  decently  sup 
port  life.  In  earlier  economic  stages  we  defended 
this  as  the  reward  of  Thrift  and  Sacrifice,  and  as  the 


ioo  DARKWATER 

punishment  of  Ignorance  and  Crime.  To  this  the  an 
swer  is  sharp :  Sacrifice  calls  for  no  such  reward  and 
Ignorance  deserves  no  such  punishment.  The  chief 
meaning  of  our  present  thinking  is  that  the  dispro 
portion  between  wealth  and  poverty  today  cannot  be 
adequately  accounted  for  by  the  thrift  and  ignorance 
of  the  rich  and  the  poor. 

Yesterday  we  righted  one  great  mistake  when  we 
realized  that  the  ownership  of  the  laborer  did  not  tend 
to  increase  production.  The  world  at  large  had  learned 
this  long  since,  but  black  slavery  arose  again  in  Amer 
ica  as  an  inexplicable  anachronism,  a  wilful  crime. 
The  freeing  of  the  black  slaves  freed  America.  To 
day  we  are  challenging  another  ownership, — the  own 
ership  of  materials  which  go  to  make  the  goods  we 
need.  Private  ownership  of  land,  tools,  and  raw  ma 
terials  may  at  one  stage  of  economic  development  be 
a  method  of  stimulating  production  and  one  which 
does  not  greatly  interfere  with  equitable  distribution. 
When,  however,  the  intricacy  and  length  of  technical 
production  increased,  the  ownership  of  these  things 
becomes  a  monopoly,  which  easily  makes  the  rich 
richer  and  the  poor  poorer.  Today,  therefore,  we  are 
challenging  this  ownership;  we  are  demanding  general 
consent  as  to  what  materials  shall  be  privately  owned 
and  as  to  how  materials  shall  be  used.  We  are  rapidly 
approaching  the  day  wrhen  we  shall  repudiate  all  pri 
vate  property  in  raw  materials  and  tools  and  demand 
that  distribution  hinge,  not  on  the  power  of  those  who 
monopolize  the  materials,  but  on  the  needs  of  the 
mass  of  men. 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  101 

Can  we  do  this  and  still  make  sufficient  goods, 
justly  gauge  the  needs  of  men,  and  rightly  decide  who 
are  to  be  considered  "men"?  How  do  we  arrange 
.to  accomplish  these  things  today?  Somebody  decides 
whose  wants  should  be  satisfied.  Somebody  organizes 
industry  so  as  to  satisfy  these  wants.  What  is  to 
hinder  the  same  ability  and  foresight  from  being  used 
in  the  future  as  in  the  past?  The  amount  and  kind 
of  human  ability  necessary  need  not  be  decreased, — 
it  may  even  be  vastly  increased,  with  proper  encour 
agement  and  rewards.  Are  we  today  evoking  the 
necessary  ability?  On  the  contrary,  it  is  not  the 
Inventor,  the  Manager,  and  the  Thinker  who  today  are 
reaping  the  great  rewards  of  industry,  but  rather  the 
Gambler  and  the  Highwayman.  Rightly-organized 
industry  might  easily  save  the  Gambler's  Profit  and 
the  Monopolist's  Interest  and  by  paying  a  more  dis 
criminating  reward  in  wealth  and  honor  bring  to  the 
service  of  the  state  more  ability  and  sacrifice  than  we 
can  today  command.  If  we  do  away  with  interest 
and  profit,  consider  the  savings  that  could  be  made; 
but  above  all,  think  how  great  the  revolution  would  be 
when  we  ask  the  mysterious  Somebody  to  decide  in 
the  light  of  public  opinion  whose  wants  should  be 
satisfied.  This  is  the  great  and  real  revolution  that 
is  coming  in  future  industry. 

But  this  is  not  the  end  of  the  revolution  nor  indeed, 
perhaps,  its  real  beginning.  What  we  must  decide 
sometime  is  who  are  to  be  considered  "  men/*  Today, 
at  the  beginning  of  this  industrial  change,  we  are  ad 
mitting  that  economic  classes  must  give  way.  The 


102  DARKWATER 

laborers'  hire  must  increase,  the  employers'  profit  must 
be  curbed.  But  how  far  shall  this  change  go  ?  Must 
it  apply  to  all  human  beings  and  to  all  work  through 
out  the  world? 

Certainly  not.  We  seek  to  apply  it  slowly  and  with 
some  reluctance  to  white  men  and  more  slowly  and 
with  greater  reserve  to  white  women,  but  black  folk 
and  brown  and  for  the  most  part  yellow  folk  we  have 
widely  determined  shall  not  be  among  those  whose 
needs  must  justly  be  heard  and  whose  wants  must  be 
ministered  to  in  the  great  organization  of  world  in 
dustry. 

In  the  teaching  of  my  classes  I  was  not  willing  to 
stop  with  showing  that  this  was  unfair, — indeed  I 
did  not  have  to  do  this.  They  knew  through  bitter 
experience  its  rank  injustice,  because  they  were  black. 
What  I  had  to  show  was  that  no  real  reorganization 
of  industry  could  be  permanently  made  with  the  ma 
jority  of  mankind  left  out.  These  disinherited  darker 
peoples  must  either  share  in  the  future  industrial  de 
mocracy  or  overturn  the  world. 

Of  course,  the  foundation  of  such  a  system  must  be 
a  high,  ethical  ideal.  We  must  really  envisage  the 
wants  of  humanity.  We  must  want  the  wants  of  all 
men.  We  must  get  rid  of  the  fascination  for  exclu- 
siveness.  Here,  in  a  world  full  of  folk,  men  are 
lonely.  The  rich  are  lonely.  We  are  all  frantic  for 
fellow-souls,  yet  we  shut  souls  out  and  bar  the  ways 
and  bolster  up  the  fiction  of  the  Elect  and  the  Superior 
when  the  great  mass  of  men  is  capable  of  producing 
larger  and  larger  numbers  for  every  human  height  of 


OF  WORK  AND  WEALTH  103 

attainment.  To  be  sure,  there  are  differences  between 
men  and  groups  and  there  will  ever  be,  but  they  will 
be  differences  of  beauty  and  genius  and  of  interest 
and  not  necessarily  of  ugliness,  imbecility,  and  hatred. 

The  meaning  of  America  is  the  beginning  of  the  dis 
covery  of  the  Crowd.  Trie  crowd  is  not  so  well-trained 
as  a  Versailles  garden  party  of  Louis  XIV,  but  it 
is  far  better  trained  than  the  Sans-culottes  and  it  has 
infinite  possibilities.  What  a  world  this  will  be  when 
human  possibilities  are  freed,  when  we  discover  each 
other,  when  the  stranger  is  no  longer  the  potential 
criminal  and  the  certain  inferior! 

What  hinders  our  approach  to  the  ideals  outlined 
above  ?  Our  profit  from  degradation,  our  colonial  ex 
ploitation,  our  American  attitude  toward  the  Negro. 
Think  again  of  East  St.  Louis!  Think  back  of  that 
to  slavery  and  Reconstruction !  Do  we  want  the  wants 
of  American  Negroes  satisfied?  Most  certainly  not, 
and  that  negative  is  the  greatest  hindrance  today  to 
the  reorganization  of  work  and  redistribution  of 
wealth,  not  only  in  America,  but  in  the  world. 

All  humanity  must  share  in  the  future  industrial 
democracy  of  the  world  For  this  it  must  be  trained 
in  intelligence  and  in  appreciation  of  the  good  and 
the  beautiful.  Present  Big  Business, — that  Science  of 
Human  Wants — must  be  perfected  by  eliminating  the 
price  paid  for  waste,  which  is  Interest,  and  for  Chance, 
which  is  Profit,  and  making  all  income  a  personal 
wage  for  service  rendered  by  the  recipient;  by  recog 
nizing  no  possible  human  service  as  great  enough  to 
enable  a  person  to  designate  another  as  an  idler  or 


io4  DARKWATER 

as  a  worker  at  work  which  he  cannot  do.  Above  all, 
industry  must  minister  to  the  wants  of  the  many  and 
not  to  the  few,  and  the  Negro,  the  Indian,  the  Mon 
golian,  and  the  South  Sea  Islander  must  be  among  the 
many  as  well  as  Germans,  Frenchmen,  and  English 
men. 

In  this  coming  socialization  of  industry  we  must 
guard  against  that  same  tyranny  of  the  majority  that 
has  marked  democracy  in  the  making  of  laws.  There 
must,  for  instance,  persist  in  this  future  economics  a 
certain  minimum  of  machine-like  work  and  prompt 
obedience  and  submission.  This  necessity  is  a  simple 
corollary  from  the  hard  facts  of  the  physical  world. 
It  must  be  accepted  with  the  comforting  thought  that 
its  routine  need  not  demand  twelve  hours  a  day  or 
even  eight.  With  Work  for  All  and  All  at  Work 
probably  from  three  to  six  hours  would  suffice,  and 
leave  abundant  time  for  leisure,  exercise,  study,  and 
avocations. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  work  where  spiritual 
values  and  social  distinctions  enter?  Who  shall  be 
Artists  and  who  shall  be  Servants  in  the  world  to 
come  ?  Or  shall  we  all  be  artists  and  all  serve  ? 


The  Second  Coming 

Three  bishops  sat  in  San  Francisco,  New  Orleans,  and 
New  York,  peering  gloomily  into  three  flickering  fires, 
which  cast  and  recast  shuddering  shadows  on  book-lined 
walls.  Three  letters  lay  in  their  laps,  which  said: 

"  And  thou,  Valdosta,  in  the  land  of  Georgia,  art  not 
least  among  the  princes  of  America,  for  out  of  thee 
shall  come  a  governor  who  shall  rule  my  people." 

The  white  bishop  of  New  York  scowled  and  impa 
tiently  threw  the  letter  into  the  fire.  "Valdosta?"  he 
thought, — "  That's  where  I  go  to  the  governor's  wedding 
of  little  Marguerite,  my  white  flower, — "  Then  he  for 
got  the  writing  in  his  musing,  but  the  paper  flared  red 
in  the  fireplace. 

"Valdosta?"  said  the  black  bishop  of  New  Orleans, 
turning  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "  I  must  go  down  there. 
Those  colored  folk  are  acting  strangely.  I  don't  know 
where  all  this  unrest  and  moving  will  lead  to.  Then, 
there's  poor  Lucy — "  And  he  threw  the  letter  into  the 
fire,  but  eyed  it  suspiciously  as  it  flamed  green.  "  Stran 
ger  things  than  that  have  happened,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  *  and  ye  shall  hear  of  wars  and  rumors  of  wars  .  .  . 
for  nation  shall  rise  against  nation  and  kingdom  against 
kingdom.' " 

In  San  Francisco  the  priest  of  Japan,  abroad  to  study 
strange  lands,  sat  in  his  lacquer  chair,  with  face  like 
soft-yellow  and  wrinkled  parchment.  Slowly  he  wrote 
in  a  great  and  golden  book :  "  I  have  been  strangely 
bidden  to  the  Val  d'  Osta,  where  one  of  those  religious 
cults  that  swarm  here  will  welcome  a  prophet.  I  shall 
go  and  report  to  Kioto." 

So  in  the  dim  waning  of  the  day  before  Christmas 

105 


io6  DARKWATER 

three  bishops  met  in  Valdosta  and  saw  its  mills  and 
storehouses,  its  wide-throated  and  sandy  streets,  in  the 
mellow  glow  of  a  crimson  sun.  The  governor  glared 
anxiously  up  the  street  as  he  helped  the  bishop  of  New 
York  into  his  car  and  welcomed  him  graciously. 

"  I  am  troubled,"  said  the  governor,  "  about  the  nig 
gers.  They  are  acting  queerly.  I'm  not  certain  but 
Fleming  is  back  of  it." 

"Fleming?" 

"  Yes !  He's  running  against  me  next  term  for  gov 
ernor;  he's  a  fire-brand;  wants  niggers  to  vote  and  all 
that — pardon  me  a  moment,  there's  a  darky  I  know — " 
and  he  hurried  to  the  black  bishop,  who  had  just  de 
scended  from  the  "  Jim-Ciiow  "  car,  and  clasped  his  hand 
cordially.  They  talked  in  whispers.  "  Search  diligently," 
said  the  governor  in  parting,  "and  bring  me  word 
again."  Then  returning  to  his  guest,  "  You  will  excuse 
me,  won't  you  ?  "  he  asked,  "  but  I  am  sorely  troubled ! 
I  never  saw  niggers  act  so.  They're  leaving  by  the 
hundreds  and  those  who  stay  are  getting  impudent! 
They  seem  to  be  expecting  something.  What's  the  crowd, 
Jim?" 

The  chauffeur  said  that  there  was  some  sort  of  Chinese 
official  in  town  and  everybody  wanted  to  glimpse  him. 
He  drove  around  another  way. 

It  all  happened  very  suddenly.  The  bishop  of  New 
York,  in  full  canonicals  for  the  early  wedding,  stepped 
out  on  the  rear  balcony  of  his  mansion,  just  as  the  dying 
sun  lit  crimson  clouds  of  glory  in  the  East  and  burned 
the  West. 

"  Fire ! "  yelled  a  wag  in  the  surging  crowd  that  was 
gathering  to  celebrate  a  southern  Christmas-eve;  all 
laughed  and  ran. 

The  bishop  of  New  York  did  not  understand.  He 
peered  around.  Was  it  that  dark,  little  house  in  the 
far  backyard  that  flamed?  Forgetful  of  his  robes  he 
hurried  down, — a  brave,  white  figure  in  the  sunset.  He 


THE  SECOND  COMING  107 

found  himself  before  an  old,  black,  rickety  stable.     He 
could  hear  the  mules  stamping  within. 

No.  It  was  not  fire.  It  was  the  sunset  glowing 
through  the  cracks.  Behind  the  hut  its  glory  rose 
toward  God  like  flaming  wings  of  cherubim.  He  paused 
until  he  heard  the  faint  wail  of  a  child.  Hastily  he 
entered.  A  white  girl  crouched  before  him,  down  by  the 
very  mules'  feet,  with  a  baby  in  her  arms, — a  little  mite 
of  a  baby  that  wailed  weakly.  Behind  mother  and  child 
stood  a  shadow.  The  bishop  of  New  York  turned  to  the 
right,  inquiringly,  and  saw  a  black  man  in  bishop's  robes 
that  faintly  re-echoed  his  own.  He  turned  away  to  the 
left  and  saw  a  golden  Japanese  in  golden  garb.  Then 
he  heard  the  black  man  mutter  behind  him :  "  But  He 
was  to  come  the  second  time  in  clouds  of  glory,  with 
the  nations  gathered  around  Him  and  angels — "  at  the 
word  a  shaft  of  glorious  light  fell  full  upon  the  child, 
while  without  came  the  tramping  of  unnumbered  feet 
and  the  whirring  of  wings. 

The  bishop  of  New  York  bent  quickly  over  the  baby. 
It  was  black!  He  stepped  back  with  a  gesture  of 
disgust,  hardly  listening  to  and  yet  hearing  the  black 
bishop,  who  spoke  almost  as  if  in  apology: 

"  She's  not  really  white ;  I  know  Lucy — you  see,  her 
mother  worked  for  the  governor — "  The  white  bishop 
turned  on  his  heel  and  nearly  trod  on  the  yellow  priest, 
who  knelt  with  bowed  head  before  the  pale  mother  and 
offered  incense  and  a  gift  of  gold. 

Out  into  the  night  rushed  the  bishop  of  New  York. 
The  wings  of  the  cherubim  were  folded  black  against 
the  stars.  As  he  hastened  down  the  front  staircase  the 
governor  came  rushing  up  the  street  steps. 

"  We  are  late !  "  he  cried  nervously.  "  The  bride 
awaits ! "  He  hurried  the  bishop  to  the  waiting  limou 
sine,  asking  him  anxiously :  "  Did  you  hear  anything? 
Do  you  hear  that  noise  ?  The  crowd  is  growing  strangely 
on  the  streets  and  there  seems  to  be  a  fire  over  toward 


io8  DARKWATER 

the  East.  I  never  saw  so  many  people  here — I  fear  vio 
lence — a  mob — a  lynching — I  fear — hark !  " 

What  was  that  which  he,  too,  heard  beneath  the  rhythm 
of  unnumbered  feet?  Deep  in  his  heart  a  wonder  grew. 
What  was  it?  Ah,  he  knew!  It  was  music, — some 
strong  and  mighty  chord.  It  rose  higher  as  the  brilliantly- 
lighted  church  split  the  night,  and  swept  radiantly  toward 
them.  So  high  and  clear  that  music  flew,  it  seemed 
above,  around,  behind  them.  The  governor,  ashen-faced, 
crouched  in  the  car;  but  the  bishop  said  softly  as  the 
ecstasy  pulsed  in  his  heart : 

"  Such  music,  such  wedding  music !  What  choir  is 
it?" 


"  THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE  " 

THE  lady  looked  at  me  severely;  I  glanced  away.  I 
had  addressed  the  little  audience  at  some  length  on 
the  disfranchisement  of  my  people  in  society,  poli 
tics,  and  industry  and  had  studiously  avoided  the 
while  her  cold,  green  eye.  I  finished  and  shook  weary 
hands,  while  she  lay  in  wait.  I  knew  what  was  corn 
ing  and  braced  my  soul. 

"  Do  you  know  where  I  can  get  a  good  colored 
cook  ?  "  she  asked. 

I  disclaimed  all  guilty  concupiscence.  She  came 
nearer  and  spitefully  shook  a  finger  in  my  face. 

"  Why — won't — Negroes — work !  "  she  panted.  "  I 
have  given  money  for  years  to  Hampton  and  Tuske- 
gee  and  yet  I  can't  get  decent  servants.  They  won't 
try.  They're  lazy!  They're  unreliable!  They're  im 
pudent  and  they  leave  without  notice.  They  all  want 
to  be  lawyers  and  doctors  and  "  (she  spat  the  word  in 
venom)  "ladies!" 

"  God  forbid !  "  I  answered  solemnly,  and  then  be 
ing  of  gentle  birth  and  unminded  to  strike  a  defense 
less  female  of  uncertain  years,  I  ran;  I  ran  home  and 
wrote  a  chapter  in  my  book  and  this  is  it. 

I  speak  and  speak  bitterly  as  a  servant  and  a  serv 
ant's  son,  for  my  mother  spent  five  or  more  years  of 

109 


i  io  DARKWATER 

her  life  as  a  menial;  my  father's  family  escaped,  al 
though  grandfather  as  a  boat  steward  had  to  fight 
hard  to  be  a  man  and  not  a  lackey.  He  fought  and 
won.  My  mother's  folk,  however,  during  my  child 
hood,  sat  poised  on  that  thin  edge  between  the  farmer 
and  the  menial.  The  surrounding  Irish  had  two 
chances,  the  factory  and  the  kitchen,  and  most  of  them 
took  the  factory,  with  all  its  dirt  and  noise  and  low 
wage.  The  factory  was  closed  to  us.  Our  little  lands 
were  too  small  to  feed  most  of  us.  A  few  clung  almost 
sullenly  to  the  old  homes,  low  and  red  things  crouching 
on  a  wide  level;  but  the  children  stirred  restlessly  and 
walked  often  to  town  and  saw  its  wonders.  Slowly 
they  dribbled  off, — a  waiter  here,  a  cook  there,  help 
for  a  few  weeks  in  Mrs.  Blank's  kitchen  when  she 
had  summer  boarders. 

Instinctively  I  hated  such  work  from  my  birth.  I 
loathed  it  and  shrank  from  it.  Why?  I  could  not 
have  said.  Had  I  been  born  in  Carolina  instead  of 
Massachusetts  I  should  hardly  have  escaped  the  taint 
of  "  service."  Its  temptations  in  wage  and  comfort 
would  soon  have  answered  my  scruples ;  and  yet  I  am 
sure  I  would  have  fought  long  even  in  Carolina,  for 
I  knew  in  my  heart  that  thither  lay  Hell. 

I  mowed  lawns  on  contract,  did  "  chores "  that 
left  me  my  own  man,  sold  papers,  and  peddled  tea — 
anything  to  escape  the  shadow  of  the  awful  thing 
that  lurked  to  grip  my  soul.  Once,  and  once  only,  I 
felt  the  sting  of  its  talons.  I  was  twenty  and  had 
graduated  from  Fisk  with  a  scholarship  for  Harvard; 
I  needed,  however,  travel  money  and  clothes  and  a 


'THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE"        in 

bit  to  live  on  until  the  scholarship  was  due.  Fortson 
was  a  fellow-student  in  winter  and  a  waiter  in  sum 
mer.  He  proposed  that  the  Glee  Club  Quartet  of 
Fisk  spend  the  summer  at  the  hotel  in  Minnesota 
where  he  worked  and  that  I  go  along  as  "  Business 
Manager  "  to  arrange  for  engagements  on  the  journey 
back.  We  were  all  eager,  but  we  knew  nothing  of 
table-waiting.  "  Never  mind,"  said  Fortson,  "  you 
can  stand  around  the  dining-room  during  meals  and 
carry  out  the  big  wooden  trays  of  dirty  dishes.  Thus 
you  can  pick  up  knowledge  of  waiting  and  earn  good 
tips  and  get  free  board."  I  listened  askance,  but  I 
went. 

I  entered  that  broad  and  blatant  hotel  at  Lake  Min- 
netonka  with  distinct  forebodings.  The  flamboyant 
architecture,  the  great  verandas,  rich  furniture,  and 
richer  dresses  awed  us  mightily.  The  long  loft  re 
served  for  us,  with  its  clean  little  cots,  was  reas 
suring;  the  work  was  not  difficult, — but  the  meals! 
There  were  no  meals.  At  first,  before  the  guests  ate, 
a  dirty  table  in  the  kitchen  was  hastily  strewn  with 
uneatable  scraps.  We  novices  were  the  only  ones  who 
came  to  eat,  while  the  guests'  dining-room,  with  its 
savors  and  sights,  set  our  appetites  on  edge!  After 
a  while  even  the  pretense  of  meals  for  us  was  dropped. 
We  were  sure  we  were  going  to  starve  when  Dug,  one 
of  us,  made  a  startling  discovery:  the  waiters  stole 
their  food  and  they  stole  the  best.  We  gulped  and 
hesitated.  Then  we  stole,  too,  (or,  at  least,  they 
stole  and  I  shared)  and  we  all  fattened,  for  the  dain 
ties  were  marvelous.  You  slipped  a  bit  here  and  hid 


112  DARKWATER 

it  there;  you  cut  off  extra  portions  and  gave  false 
orders;  you  dashed  off  into  darkness  and  hid  in 
corners  and  ate  and  ate!  It  was  nasty  business.  I 
hated  it.  I  was  too  cowardly  to  steal  much  myself, 
and  not  coward  enough  to  refuse  what  others  stole. 

Our  work  was  easy,  but  insipid.  We  stood  about 
and  watched  overdressed  people  gorge.  For  the  most 
part  we  were  treated  like  furniture  and  were  sup 
posed  to  act  the  wooden  part.  I  watched  the  waiters 
even  more  than  the  guests.  I  saw  that  it  paid  to  amuse 
and  to  cringe.  One  particular  black  man  set  me 
crazy.  He  was  intelligent  and  deft,  but  one  day  I 
caught  sight  of  his  face  as  he  served  a  crowd  of  men; 
he  was  playing  the  clown, — crouching,  grinning,  as 
suming  a  broad  dialect  when  he  usually  spoke  good 
English — ah!  it  was  a  heartbreaking  sight,  and  he 
made  more  money  than  any  waiter  in  the  dining-room. 

I  did  not  mind  the  actual  work  or  the  kind  of 
work,  but  it  was  the  dishonesty  and  deception,  the 
flattery  and  cajolery,  the  unnatural  assumption  that 
worker  and  diner  had  no  common  humanity.  It  was 
uncanny.  It  was  inherently  and  fundamentally  wrong. 
I  stood  staring  and  thinking,  while  the  other  boys 
hustled  about.  Then  I  noticed  one  fat  hog,  feeding  at 
a  heavily  gilded  trough,  who  could  not  find  his  waiter. 
He  beckoned  me.  It  was  not  his  voice,  for  his  mouth 
was  too  full.  It  was  his  way,  his  air,  his  assumption. 
Thus  Caesar  ordered  his  legionaries  or  Cleopatra  her 
slaves.  Dogs  recognized  the  gesture.  I  did  not.  He 
may  be  beckoning  yet  for  all  I  know,  for  something 
froze  within  me.  I  did  not  look  his  way  again.  Then 


'THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE"        113 

and  there  I  disowned  menial  service  for  me  and  my 
people. 

I  would  work  my  hands  off  for  an  honest  wage,  but 
for  "  tips  "  and  "  hand-me-outs,"  never !  Fortson  was 
a  pious,  honest  fellow,  who  regarded  "tips"  as  in 
the  nature  of  things,  being  to  the  manner  born;  but 
the  hotel  that  summer  in  other  respects  rather  aston 
ished  even  him.  He  came  to  us  much  flurried  one 
night  and  got  us  to  help  him  with  a  memorial  to  the 
absentee  proprietor,  telling  of  the  wild  and  gay  do 
ings  of  midnights  in  the  rooms  and  corridors  among 
"  tired  "  business  men  and  their  prostitutes.  We  lis 
tened  wide-eyed  and  eager  and  wrote  the  filth  out 
manfully.  The  proprietor  did  not  thank  Fortson.  He 
did  not  even  answer  the  letter. 

When  I  finally  walked  out  of  that  hotel  and  out  of 
menial  service  forever,  I  felt  as  though,  in  a  field  of 
flowers,  my  nose  had  been  held  unpleasantly  long  to 
the  worms  and  manure  at  their  roots. 

"  Cursed  be  Canaan !  "  cried  the  Hebrew  priests. 
"  A  servant  of  servants  shall  he  be  unto  his  brethren." 
With  what  characteristic  complacency  did  the  slave 
holders  assume  that  Canaanites  were  Negroes  and 
their  "  brethren  "  white  ?  Are  not  Negroes  servants  ? 
Ergo!  Upon  such  spiritual  myths  was  the  anachron 
ism  of  American  slavery  built,  and  this  was  the  de 
gradation  that  once  made  menial  servants  the  aristo 
crats  among  colored  folk.  House  servants  secured 
some  decencies  of  food  and  clothing  and  shelter;  they 
could  more  easily  reach  their  master's  ear;  their  per- 


114  DARKWATER 

sonal  abilities  of  character  became  known  and  bonds 
grew  between  slave  and  master  which  strengthened 
from  friendship  to  love,  from  mutual  service  to  mu 
tual  blood. 

Naturally  out  of  this  the  West  Indian  servant 
climbed  out  of  slavery  into  citizenship,  for  few  West 
Indian  masters — fewer  Spanish  or  Dutch — were  cal 
lous  enough  to  sell  their  own  children  into  slavery. 
Not  so  with  English  and  Americans.  With  a  harsh 
ness  and  indecency  seldom  paralleled  in  the  civilized 
world  white  masters  on  the  mainland  sold  their  mu 
latto  children,  half-brothers  and  half-sisters,  and  their 
own  wives  in  all  but  name,  into  life-slavery  by  the 
hundreds  and  thousands.  They  originated  a  special 
branch  of  slave-trading  for  this  trade  and  the  white 
aristocrats  of  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas  made  more 
money  by  this  business  during  the  eighteenth  and  nine 
teenth  centuries  than  in  any  other  way. 

The  clang  of  the  door  of  opportunity  thus  knelled 
in  the  ears  of  the  colored  house  servant  whirled  the 
whole  face  of  Negro  advancement  as  on  some  great 
pivot.  The  movement  was  slow,  but  vast.  When 
emancipation  came,  before  and  after  1863,  the  house 
servant  still  held  advantages.  He  had  whatever  edu 
cation  the  race  possessed  and  his  white  father,  no 
longer  able  to  sell  him,  often  helped  him  with  land 
and  protection.  Notwithstanding  this  the  lure  of 
house  service  for  the  Negro  was  gone.  The  path  of 
salvation  for  the  emancipated  host  of  black  folk  lay 
no  longer  through  the  kitchen  door,  with  its  wide 
hall  and  pillared  veranda  and  flowered  yard  beyond. 


"THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE"        115 

It  lay,  as  every  Negro  soon  knew  and  knows,  in  es 
cape  from  menial  serfdom. 

In  1860,  98  per  cent,  of  the  Negroes  were  servants 
and  serfs.  In  1880,  30  per  cent  were  servants  and 
65  per  cent  were  serfs.  The  percentage  of  servants 
then  rose  slightly  and  fell  again  until  21  per  cent 
were  in  service  in  1910  and,  doubtless,  much  less  than 
20  per  cent  today.  This  is  the  measure  of  our  rise, 
but  the  Negro  will  not  approach  freedom  until  this 
hateful  badge  of  slavery  and  mediaevalism  has  been 
reduced  to  less  than  10  per  cent. 

Not  only  are  less  than  a  fifth  of  our  workers  serv 
ants  today,  but  the  character  of  their  service  has  been 
changed.  The  million  menial  workers  among  us  in 
clude  300,000  upper  servants, — skilled  men  and  women 
of  character,  like  hotel  waiters,  Pullman  porters,  jani 
tors,  and  cooks,  who,  had  they  been  white,  could  have 
called  on  the  great  labor  movement  to  lift  their  work 
out  of  slavery,  to  standardize  their  hours,  to  define 
their  duties,  and  to  substitute  a  living,  regular  wage 
for  personal  largess  in  the  shape  of  tips,  old  clothes, 
and  cold  leavings  of  food.  But  the  labor  movement 
turned  their  backs  on  those  black  men  when  the  white 
world  dinned  in  their  ears.  Negroes  are  servants; 
servants  are  Negroes.  They  shut  the  door  of  escape 
to  factory  and  trade  in  their  fellows'  faces  and  bat 
tened  down  the  hatches,  lest  the  300,000  should  be 
workers  equal  in  pay  and  consideration  with  white 
men. 

But,  if  the  upper  servants  could  not  escape  to  mod 
ern,  industrial  conditions,  how  much  the  more  did 


ii6  DARKWATER 

they  press  down  on  the  bodies  and  souls  of  700,000 
washerwomen  and  household  drudges, — ignorant,  un 
skilled  offal  of  a  millionaire  industrial  system.  Their 
pay  was  the  lowest  and  their  hours  the  longest  of  all 
workers.  The  personal  degradation  of  their  work 
is  so  great  that  any  white  man  of  decency  would 
rather  cut  his  daughter's  throat  than  let  her  grow  up 
to  such  a  destiny.  There  is  throughout  the  world  and 
in  all  races  no  greater  source  of  prostitution  than  this 
grade  of  menial  service,  and  the  Negro  race  in  Amer 
ica  has  largely  escaped  this  destiny  simply  because  its 
innate  decency  leads  black  women  to  choose  irregular 
and  temporary  sexual  relations  with  men  they  like 
rather  than  to  sell  themselves  to  strangers.  To  such 
sexual  morals  is  added  (in  the  nature  of  self-defense) 
that  revolt  against  unjust  labor  conditions  which  ex 
presses  itself  in  "  soldiering,"  sullenness,  petty  pilfer 
ing,  unreliability,  and  fast  and  fruitless  changes  of 
masters. 

Indeed,  here  among  American  Negroes  we  have  ex 
emplified  the  last  and  worst  refuge  of  industrial  caste. 
Menial  service  is  an  anachronism, — the  refuse  of  me 
diaeval  barbarism.  Why,  then,  does  it  linger?  Why 
are  we  silent  about  it?  Why  in  the  minds  of  so  many 
decent  and  up-seeing  folks  does  the  whole  Negro  prob 
lem  resolve  itself  into  the  matter  of  their  getting  a 
cook  or  a  maid  ? 

No  one  knows  better  than  I  the  capabilities  of  a 
system  of  domestic  service  at  its  best.  I  have  seen 
children  who  were  spiritual  sons  and  daughters  of 
their  masters,  girls  who  were  friends  of  their  mis- 


'  THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE"        117 

tresses,  and  old  servants  honored  and  revered.  But 
in  every  such  case  the  Servant  had  transcended  the 
Menial,  the  Service  had  been  exalted  above  the  Wage. 
Now  to  accomplish  this  permanently  and  universally, 
calls  for  the  same  revolution  in  household  help  as  in 
factory  help  and  public  service.  While  organized  in 
dustry  has  been  slowly  making  its  help  into  self-respect 
ing,  well-paid  men,  and  while  public  service  is  begin 
ning  to  call  for  the  highest  types  of  educated  and 
efficient  thinkers,  domestic  service  lags  behind  and 
insists  upon  seeking  to  evolve  the  best  types  of  men 
from  the  worst  conditions. 

The  cause  of  this  perversity,  to  my  mind,  is  two 
fold.  First,  the  ancient  high  estate  of  Service,  now 
pitifully  fallen,  yet  gasping  for  breath;  secondly,  the 
present  low  estate  of  the  outcasts  of  the  world,  peer 
ing  with  blood-shot  eyes  at  the  gates  of  the  industrial 
heaven. 

The  Master  spoke  no  greater  word  than  that  which 
said:  "  Whosoever  will  be  great  among  you,  let  him 
be  your  servant !  "  What  is  greater  than  Personal 
Service!  Surely  no  social  service,  no  wholesale  help 
ing  of  masses  of  men  can  exist  which  does  not  find  its 
effectiveness  and  beauty  in  the  personal  aid  of  man 
to  man.  It  is  the  purest  and  holiest  of  duties.  Some 
mighty  glimmer  of  this  truth  survived  in  those  who 
made  the  First  Gentlemen  of  the  Bedchamber,  the 
Keepers  of  the  Robes,  and  the  Knights  of  the  Bath, 
the  highest  nobility  that  hedged  an  anointed  king. 
Nor  does  it  differ  today  in  what  the  mother  does  for 
the  child  or  the  daughter  for  the  mother,  in  all  the 


n8  DARKWATER 

personal  attentions  in  the  old-fashioned  home;  this 
is  Service!  Think  of  what  Friend  has  meant,  not 
simply  in  spiritual  sympathies,  but  in  physical  help 
fulness.  In  the  world  today  what  calls  for  more  of 
love,  sympathy,  learning,  sacrifice,  and  long-suffering 
than  the  care  of  children,  the  preparation  of  food, 
the  cleansing  and  ordering  of  the  home,  personal  at 
tendance  and  companionship,  the  care  of  bodies  and 
their  raiment — what  greater,  more  intimate,  more 
holy  Services  are  there  than  these? 

And  yet  we  are  degrading  these  services  and  loath 
ing  them  and  scoffing  at  them  and  spitting  upon  them, 
first,  by  turning  them  over  to  the  lowest  and  least 
competent  and  worst  trained  classes  in  the  world,  and 
then  by  yelling  like  spoiled  children  if  our  babies  are 
neglected,  our  biscuits  sodden,  our  homes  dirty,  and 
our  baths  unpoured.  Let  one  suggest  that  the  only 
cure  for  such  deeds  is  in  the  uplift  of  the  doer  and 
our  rage  is  even  worse  and  less  explicable.  We  will 
call  them  by  their  first  names,  thus  blaspheming  a 
holy  intimacy;  we  will  confine  them  to  back  doors; 
we  will  insist  that  their  meals  be  no  gracious  ceremony 
nor  even  a  restful  sprawl,  but  usually  a  hasty,  heckled 
gulp  amid  garbage;  we  exact,  not  a  natural,  but  a 
purchased  deference,  and  we  leave  them  naked  to 
insult  by  our  children  and  by  our  husbands. 

1  remember  a  girl, — how  pretty  she  was,  with  the 
crimson  flooding  the  old  ivory  of  her  cheeks  and  her 
gracious  plumpness !  She  had  come  to  the  valley  dur 
ing  the  summer  to  "  do  housework/'  I  met  and  walked 
home  with  her,  in  the  thrilling  shadows,  to  an  old 


"THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE  "        119 

village  home  I  knew  well;  then  as  I  turned  to  leave 
I  learned  that  she  was  there  alone  in  that  house  for 
a  week-end  with  only  one  young  white  man  to  repre 
sent  the  family.  Oh,  he  was  doubtless  a  "  gentleman  " 
and  all  that,  but  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  saw 
what  a  snare  the  fowler  was  spreading  at  the  feet  of 
the  daughters  of  my  people,  baited  by  church  and 
state. 

Not  alone  is  the  hurt  thus  offered  to  the  lowly, — 
Society  and  Science  suffer.  The  unit  which  we  seek 
to  make  the  center  of  society, — the  Home — is  de 
prived  of  the  help  of  scientific  invention  and  sugges 
tion.  It  is  only  slowly  and  by  the  utmost  effort  that 
some  small  foothold  has  been  gained  for  the  vacuum 
cleaner,  the  washing-machine,  the  power  tool,  and  the 
chemical  reagent.  In  our  frantic  effort  to  preserve 
the  last  vestiges  of  slavery  and  mediaevalism  we  not 
only  set  our  faces  against  such  improvements,  but 
we  seek  to  use  education  and  the  power  of  the  state 
to  train  the  servants  who  do  not  naturally  appear. 

Meantime  the  wild  rush  from  house  service,  on 
the  part  of  all  who  can  scramble  or  run,  continues. 
The  rules  of  the  labor  union  are  designed,  not  simply 
to  raise  wages,  but  to  guard  against  any  likeness  be 
tween  artisan  and  servant.  There  is  no  essential  dif 
ference  in  ability  and  training  between  a  subway  guard 
and  a  Pullman  porter,  but  between  their  union  cards 
lies  a  whole  world. 

Yet  we  are  silent.  Menial  service  is  not  a  "  social 
problem."  It  is  not  really  discussed.  There  is  no 
scientific  program  for  its  "  reform."  There  is  but 


120  DARKWATER 

one  panacea :  Escape !  Get  yourselves  and  your  sons 
and  daughters  out  of  the  shadow  of  this  awful  thing! 
Hire  servants,  but  never  be  one.  Indeed,  subtly  but 
surely  the  ability  to  hire  at  least  "  a  maid  "  is  still 
civilization's  patent  to  respectability,  while  "  a  man  " 
is  the  first  word  of  aristocracy. 

All  this  is  because  we  still  consciously  and  uncon 
sciously  hold  to  the  "  manure  "  theory  of  social  or 
ganization.  We  believe  that  at  the  bottom  of  organ 
ized  human  life  there  are  necessary  duties  and  services 
which  no  real  human  being  ought  to  be  compelled  to 
do.  We  push  below  this  mudsill  the  derelicts  and 
half -men,  whom  we  hate  and  despise,  and  seek  to  build 
above  it — Democracy!  On  such  foundations  is  reared 
a  Theory  of  Exclusiveness,  a  feeling  that  the  world 
progresses  by  a  process  of  excluding  from  the  benefits 
of  culture  the  majority  of  men,  so  that  a  gifted  mi 
nority  may  blossom.  .  Through  this  door  the  modern 
democrat  arrives  to  the  place  where  he  is  willing  to 
allot  two  able-bodied  men  and  two  fine  horses  to  the 
task  of  helping  one  wizened  beldam  to  take  the  morn 
ing  air. 

Here  the  absurdity  ends.  Here  all  honest  minds 
turn  back  and  ask:  Is  menial  service  permanent  or 
necessary?  Can  we  not  transfer  cooking  from  the 
home  to  the  scientific  laboratory,  along  with  the  laun 
dry?  Cannot  machinery,  in  the  hands  of  self-respect 
ing  and  well-paid  artisans,  do  our  cleaning,  sewing, 
moving,  and  decorating?  Cannot  the  training  of 
children  become  an  even  greater  profession  than  the 
attending  of  the  sick?  And  cannot  personal  service 


'THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE"        121 

and  companionship  be  coupled  with  friendship  and 
love  where  it  belongs  and  whence  it  can  never  be  di 
vorced  without  degradation  and  pain? 

In  fine,  can  we  not,  black  and  white,  rich  and  poor, 
look  forward  to  a  world  of  Service  without  Servants? 

A  miracle!  you  say?  True.  And  only  to  be  per 
formed  by  the  Immortal  Child. 


Jesus  Christ  in  Texas 

It  was  in  Waco,  Texas. 

The  convict  guard  laughed.  "  I  don't  know,"  he  said, 
"  I  hadn't  thought  of  that."  He  hesitated  and  looked  at 
the  stranger  curiously.  In  the  solemn  twilight  he  got  an 
impression  of  unusual  height  and  soft,  dark  eyes.  "  Curi 
ous  sort  of  acquaintance  for  the  colonel,"  he  thought; 
then  he  continued  aloud :  "  But  that  nigger  there  is  bad, 
a  born  thief,  and  ought  to  be  sent  up  for  life;  got  ten 
years  last  time " 

Here  the  voice  of  the  promoter,  talking  within,  broke 
in ;  he  was  bending  over  his  figures,  sitting  by  the  colonel. 
He  was  slight,  with  a  sharp  nose. 

"  The  convicts,"  he  said,  "  would  cost  us  $96  a  year 
and  board.  Well,  we  can  squeeze  this  so  that  it  won't 
be  over  $125  apiece.  Now  if  these  fellows  are  driven, 
they  can  build  this  line  within  twelve  months.  It  will 
be  tunning  by  next  April.  Freights  will  fall  fifty  per 
cent.  Why,  man,  you'll  be  a  millionaire  in  less  than  ten 
years." 

The  colonel  started.  He  was  a  thick,  short  man,  with 
a  clean-shaven  face  and  a  certain  air  of  breeding  about 
the  lines  of  his  countenance  ;  the  word  millionaire  sounded 
well  to  his  ears.  He  thought — he  thought  a  great  deal; 
he  almost  heard  the  puff  of  the  fearfully  costly  automo 
bile  that  was  coming  up  the  road,  and  he  said : 

"  I  suppose  we  might  as  well  hire  them." 

"  Of  course,"  answered  the  promoter. 

The  voice  of  the  tall  stranger  in  the  corner  broke  in 
here : 

"  It  will  be  a  good  thing  for  them?"  he  said,  half  in 
question. 

123 


124  DARKWATER 

The  colonel  moved.  "The  guard  makes  strange 
friends,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "  What's  this  man  do 
ing  here,  anyway  ?  "  He  looked  at  him,  or  rather  looked 
at  his  eyes,  and  then  somehow  he  felt  a  warming  toward 
him.  He  said: 

"Well,  at  least,  it  can't  harm  them:  they're  beyond 
that." 

"  It  will  do  them  good,  then,"  said  the  stranger  again. 
The  promoter  shrugged  his  shoulders.     "It  will  do 
us  good,"  he  said. 

But  the  colonel  shook  his  head  impatiently.  He  felt 
a  desire  to  justify  himself  before  those  eyes,  and  he 
answered :  "  Yes,  it  will  do  them  good ;  or  at  any  rate 
it  won't  make  them  any  worse  than  they  are."  Then  he 
started  to  say  something  else,  but  here  sure  enough  the 
sound  of  the  automobile  breathing  at  the  gate  stopped 
him  and  they  all  arose. 

"  It  is  settled,  then,"  said  the  promoter. 
"  Yes,"  said  the  colonel,  turning  toward  the  stranger 
again.  "  Are  you  going  into  town  ?  "  he  asked  with  the 
Southern  courtesy  of  white  men  to  white  men  in  a 
country  town.  The  stranger  said  he  was.  "  Then  come 
along  in  my  machine.  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about 
this." 

They  went  out  to  the  car.  The  stranger  as  he  went 
turned  again  to  look  back  at  the  convict.  He  was  a  tall, 
powerfully  built  black  fellow.  His  face  was  sullen,  with 
a  low  forehead,  thick,  hanging  lips,  and  bitter  eyes.  There 
was  revolt  written  about  his  mouth  despite  the  hang 
dog  expression.  He  stood  bending  over  his  pile  of 
stones,  pounding  listlessly.  Beside  him  stood  a  boy  of 
twelve, — yellow,  with  a  hunted,  crafty  look.  The  con 
vict  raised  his  eyes  and  they  met  the  eyes  of  the  stranger. 
The  hammer  fell  from  his  hands. 

The  stranger  turned  slowly  toward  the  automobile 
and  the  colonel  introduced  him.  He  had  not  exactly 
caught  his  name,  but  he  mumbled  something  as  he 


JESUS  CHRIST  IN  TEXAS  125 

presented  him  to  his  wife  and  little  girl,  who  were 
waiting. 

As  they  whirled  away  the  colonel  started  to  talk,  but 
the  stranger  had  taken  the  little  girl  into  his  lap  and 
together  they  conversed  in  low  tones  all  the  way  home. 

In  some  way,  they  did  not  exactly  know  how,  they 
got  the  impression  that  the  man  was  a  teacher  and,  of 
course,  he  must  be  a  foreigner.  The  long,  cloak-like  coat 
told  this.  They  rode  in  the  twilight  through  the  lighted 
town  and  at  last  drew  up  before  the  colonel's  mansion, 
with  its  ghost-like  pillars. 

The  lady  in  the  back  seat  was  thinking  of  the  guests 
she  had  invited  to  dinner  and  was  wondering  if  she  ought 
not  to  ask  this  man  to  stay.  He  seemed  cultured  and  she 
supposed  he  was  some  acquaintance  of  the  colonel's.  It 
would  be  rather  interesting  to  have  him  there,  with  the 
judge's  wife  and  daughter  and  the  rector.  She  spoke 
almost  before  she  thought : 

"  You  will  enter  and  rest  awhile  ?  " 

The  colonel  and  the  little  girl  insisted.  For  a  moment 
the  stranger  seemed  about  to  refuse.  He  said  he  had 
some  business  for  his  father,  about  town.  Then  for  the 
child's  sake  he  consented. 

Up  the  steps  they  went  and  into  the  dark  parlor  where 
they  sat  and  talked  a  long  time.  It  was  a  curious  con 
versation.  Afterwards  they  did  not  remember  exactly 
what  was  said  and  yet  they  all  remembered  a  certain 
strange  satisfaction  in  that  long,  low  talk. 

Finally  the  nurse  came  for  the  reluctant  child  and  the 
hostess  bethought  herself : 

"  We  will  have  a  cup  of  tea ;  you  will  be  dry  and 
tired." 

She  rang  and  switched  on  a  blaze  of  light.  With  one 
accord  they  all  looked  at  the  stranger,  for  they  had 
hardly  seen  him  well  in  the  glooming  twilight.  The 
woman  started  in  amazement  and  the  colonel  half  rose 
in  anger.  Why,  the  man  was  a  mulatto,  surely;  even 


126  DARKWATER 

if  he  did  not  own  the  Negro  blood,  their  practised  eyes 
knew  it.  He  was  tall  and  straight  and  the  coat  looked 
like  a  Jewish  gabardine.  His  hair  hung  in  close  curls 
far  down  the  sides  of  his  face  and  his  face  was  olive, 
even  yellow. 

A  peremptory  order  rose  to  the  colonel's  lips  and 
froze  there  as  he  caught  the  stranger's  eyes.  Those 
eyes, — where  had  he  seen  those  eyes  before?  He  re 
membered  them  long  years  ago.  The  soft,  tear-filled 
eyes  of  a  brown  girl.  He  remembered  many  things, 
and  his  face  grew  drawn  and  white.  Those  eyes  kept 
burning  into  him,  even  when  they  were  turned  half 
away  toward  the  staircase,  where  the  white  figure  of 
the  child  hovered  with  her  nurse  and  waved  good-night. 
The  lady  sank  into  her  chair  and  thought :  "  What  will 
the  judge's  wife  say?  How  did  the  colonel  come  to 
invite  this  man  here  ?  How  shall  we  be  rid  of  him  ?  " 
She  looked  at  the  colonel  in  reproachful  consterna 
tion. 

Just  then  the  door  opened  and  the  old  butler  came 
in.  He  was  an  ancient  black  man,  with  tufted  white 
hair,  and  he  held  before  him  a  large,  silver  tray  filled 
with  a  china  tea  service.  The  stranger  rose  slowly  and 
stretched  forth  his  hands  as  if  to  bless  the  viands.  The 
old  man  paused  in  bewilderment,  tottered,  and  then 
with  sudden  gladness  in  his  eyes  dropped  to  his  knees, 
and  the  tray  crashed  to  the  floor. 

"  My  Lord  and  my  God ! "  he  whispered ;  but  the 
woman  screamed :  "  Mother's  china !  " 

The  doorbell  rang. 

"  Heavens !  here  is  the  dinner  party ! "  exclaimed  the 
lady.  She  turned  toward  the  door,  but  there  in  the 
hall,  clad  in  her  night  clothes,  was  the  little  girl.  She 
had  stolen  down  the  stairs  to  see  the  stranger  again, 
and  the  nurse  above  was  calling  in  vain.  The  woman 
felt  hysterical  and  scolded  at  the  nurse,  but  the  stranger 
had  stretched  out  his  arms  and  with  a  glad  cry  the  child 


JESUS  CHRIST  IN  TEXAS  127 

nestled  in  them.  They  caught  some  words  about  the 
"  Kingdom  of  Heaven  "  as  he  slowly  mounted  the  stairs 
with  his  little,  white  burden. 

The  mother  was  glad  of  anything  to  get  rid  of  the 
interloper,  even  for  a  moment.  The  bell  rang  again 
and  she  hastened  toward  the  door,  which  the  loitering 
black  maid  was  just  opening.  She  did  not  notice  the 
shadow  of  the  stranger  as  he  came  slowly  down  the 
stairs  and  paused  by  the  newel  post,  dark  and  silent. 

The  judge's  wife  came  in.  She  was  an  old  woman, 
frilled  and  powdered  into  a  semblance  of  youth,  and 
gorgeously  gowned.  She  came  forward,  smiling  with 
extended  hands,  but  when  she  was  opposite  the 
stranger,  somewhere  a  chill  seemed  to  strike  her  and  she 
shuddered  and  cried: 

"  What  a  draft ! "  as  she  drew  a  silken  shawl  about 
her  and  shook  hands  cordially;  she  forgot  to  ask  who 
the  stranger  was.  The  judge  strode  in  unseeing,  think 
ing  of  a  puzzling  case  of  theft. 

"Eh?  What?  Oh — er — yes, — -good  evening,"  he  said, 
"  good  evening."  Behind  them  came  a  young  woman 
in  the  glory  of  youth,  and  daintily  silked,  beautiful  in 
face  and  form,  with  diamonds  around  her  fair  neck. 
She  came  in  lightly,  but  stopped  with  a  little  gasp; 
then  she  laughed  gaily  and  said : 

"  Why,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Was  it  not  curious  ?  I 
thought  I  saw  there  behind  your  man  " — she  hesitated, 
but  he  must  be  a  servant,  she  argued — "  the  shadow  of 
great,  white  wings.  It  was  but  the  light  on  the  drapery. 
What  a  turn  it  gave  me."  And  she  smiled  again.  With 
her  came  a  tall,  handsome,  young  naval  officer.  Hear 
ing  his  lady  refer  to  the  servant,  he  hardly  looked  at 
him,  but  held  his  gilded  cap  carelessly  toward  him,  and 
the  stranger  placed  it  carefully  on  the  rack. 

Last  came  the  rector,  a  man  of  forty,  and  well- 
clothed.  He  started  to  pass  the  stranger,  stopped,  and 
looked  at  him  inquiringly. 


128  DARKWATER 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
— I  think  I  have  met  you  ?  " 

The  stranger  made  no  answer,  and  the  hostess  nerv 
ously  hurried  the  guests  on.  But  the  rector  lingered 
and  looked  perplexed. 

"  Surely,  I  know  you.  I  have  met  you  somewhere," 
he  said,  putting  his  hand  vaguely  to  his  head.  "  You — 
you  remember  me,  do  you  not?" 

The  stranger  quietly  swept  his  cloak  aside,  and  to  the 
hostess'  unspeakable  relief  passed  out  of  the  door. 

"  I  never  knew  you,"  he  said  in  low  tones  as  he 
went. 

The  lady  murmured  some  vain  excuse  about  in 
truders,  but  the  rector  stood  with  annoyance  written  on 
his  face. 

"  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,"  he  said  to  the  hostess 
absently.  "  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  be  here, — somehow 
I  thought  I  knew  that  man.  I  am  sure  I  knew  him 
once." 

The  stranger  had  passed  down  the  steps,  and  as  he 
passed,  the  nurse,  lingering  at  the  top  of  the  staircase, 
flew  down  after  him,  caught  his  cloak,  trembled,  hesi 
tated,  and  then  kneeled  in  the  dust. 

He  touched  her  lightly  with  his  hand  and  said :  "  Go, 
and  sin  no  more !  " 

With  a  glad  cry  the  maid  left  the  house,  with  its  open 
door,  and  turned  north,  running.  The  stranger  turned 
eastward  into  the  night.  As  they  parted  a  long,  low 
howl  rose  tremulously  and  reverberated  through  the 
night.  The  colonel's  wife  within  shuddered. 

"  The  bloodhounds !  "  she  said. 

The  rector  answered  carelessly: 

"  Another  one  of  those  convicts  escaped,  I  suppose. 
Really,  they  need  severer  measures."  Then  he  stopped. 
He  was  trying  to  remember  that  stranger's  name. 

The  judge's  wife  looked  about  for  the  draft  and 
arranged  her  shawl.  The  girl  glanced  at  the  white 


JESUS  CHRIST  IN  TEXAS  129 

drapery  in  the  hall,  but  the  young  officer  was  bending 
over  her  and  the  fires  of  life  burned  in  her  veins. 

Howl  after  howl  rose  in  the  night,  swelled,  and  died 
away.  The  stranger  strode  rapidly  along  the  highway 
and  out  into  the  deep  forest.  There  he  paused  and 
stood  waiting,  tall  and  still. 

A  mile  up  the  road  behind  a  man  was  running,  tall 
and  powerful  and  black,  with  crime-stained  face  and 
convicts'  stripes  upon  him,  and  shackles  on  his  legs.  He 
ran  and  jumped,  in  little,  short  steps,  and  his  chains 
rang.  He  fell  and  rose  again,  while  the  howl  of  the 
hounds  rang  louder  behind  him. 

Into  the  forest  he  leapt  and  crept  and  jumped  and 
ran,  streaming  with  sweat;  seeing  the  tall  form  rise 
before  him,  he  stopped  suddenly,  dropped  his  hands  in 
sullen  impotence,  and  sank  panting  to  the  earth.  A 
greyhound  shot  out  of  the  woods  behind  him,  howled, 
whined,  and  fawned  before  the  stranger's  feet.  Hound 
after  hound  bayed,  leapt,  and  lay  there;  then  silently, 
one  by  one,  and  with  bowed  heads,  they  crept  backward 
toward  the  town. 

The  stranger  made  a  cup  of  his  hands  and  gave  the 
man  water  to  drink,  bathed  his  hot  head,  and  gently 
took  the  chains  and  irons  from  his  feet.  By  and  by 
the  convict  stood  up.  Day  was  dawning  above  the 
treetops.  He  looked  into  the  stranger's  face,  and  for 
a  moment  a  gladness  swept  over  the  stains  of  his  face. 

"  Why,  you  are  a  nigger,  too,"  he  said. 

Then  the  convict  seemed  anxious  to  justify  himself. 

"  I  never  had  no  chance,"  he  said  furtively. 

"  Thou  shalt  not  steal,"  said  the  stranger. 

The  man  bridled. 

"  But  how  about  them?  Can  they  steal?  Didn't  they 
steal  a  whole  year's  work,  and  then  when  I  stole  to 
keep  from  starving—  He  glanced  at  the  stranger. 

"  No,  I  didn't  steal  just  to  keep  from  starving.  I 
stole  to  be  stealing.  I  can't  seem  to  keep  from  stealing. 


130  DARKWATER 

Seems  like  when  I  see  things,  I  just  must — but,  yes,  I'll 
try!" 

The  convict  looked  down  at  his  striped  clothes,  but 
the  stranger  had  taken  off  his  long  coat;  he  had  put 
it  around  him  and  the  stripes  disappeared. 

In  the  opening  morning  the  black  man  started  toward 
the  low,  log  farmhouse  in  the  distance,  while  the 
stranger  stood  watching  him.  There  was  a  new  glory  in 
the  day.  The  black  man's  face  cleared  up,  and  the  farmer 
was  glad  to  get  him.  All  day  the  black  man  worked 
as  he  had  never  worked  before.  The  farmer  gave  him 
some  cold  food.  ' 

"  You  can  sleep  in  the  barn,"  he  said,  and  turned 
away. 

"  How  much  do  I  git  a  day?  "  asked  the  black  man. 

The  farmer  scowled. 

"  Now  see  here,"  said  he.  "  If  you'll  sign  a  contract 
for  the  season,  I'll  give  you  ten  dollars  a  month." 

"  I  won't  sign  no  contract,"  said  the  black  man  dog 
gedly. 

"  Yes,  you  will,"  said  the  farmer,  threateningly,  "  or 
I'll  call  the  convict  guard."  And  he  grinned. 

The  convict  shrank  and  slouched  to  the  barn.  As 
night  fell  he  looked  out  and  saw  the  farmer  leave  the 
place.  Slowly  he  crept  out  and  sneaked  toward  the 
house.  He  looked  through  the  kitchen  door.  No  one 
was  there,  but  the  supper  was  spread  as  if  the  mistress 
had  laid  it  and  gone  out.  He  ate  ravenously.  Then 
he  looked  into  the  front  room  and  listened.  He  could 
hear  low  voices  on  the  porch.  On  the  table  lay  a  gold 
watch.  He  gazed  at  it,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  beside 
it, — his  hands  were  on  it!  Quickly  he  slipped  out  of 
the  house  and  slouched  toward  the  field.  He  saw  his 
employer  coming  along  the  highway.  He  fled  back  in 
terror  and  around  to  the  front  of  the  house,  when 
suddenly  he  stopped.  He  felt  the  great,  dark  eyes  of 
the  stranger  and  saw  the  same  dark,  cloak-like  coat 


JESUS  CHRIST  IN  TEXAS  131 

where  the  stranger  sat  on  the  doorstep  talking  with  the 
mistress  of  the  house.  Slowly,  guiltily,  he  turned  back, 
entered  the  kitchen,  and  laid  the  watch  stealthily  where 
he  had  found  it;  then  he  rushed  wildly  back  toward 
the  stranger,  with  arms  outstretched. 

The  woman  had  laid  supper  for  her  husband,  and 
going  down  from  the  house  had  walked  out  toward  a 
neighbor's.  She  was  gone  but  a  little  while,  and  when 
she  came  back  she  started  to  see  a  dark  figure  on  the 
doorsteps  under  the  tall,  red  oak.  She  thought  it  was 
the  new  Negro  until  he  said  in  a  soft  voice: 

ft  Will  you  give  me  bread  ?  " 

Reassured  at  the  voice  of  a  white  man,  she  answered 
quickly  in  her  soft,  Southern  tones : 

"  Why,  certainly." 

She  was  a  little  woman,  and  once  had  been  pretty; 
but  now  her  face  was  drawn  with  work  and  care.  She 
was  nervous  and  always  thinking,  wishing,  wanting 
for  something.  She  went  in  and  got  him  some  corn- 
bread  and  a  glass  of  cool,  rich  buttermilk ;  then  she  came 
out  and  sat  down  beside  him.  She  began,  quite  uncon 
sciously,  to  tell  him  about  herself, — the  things  she  had 
done  and  had  not  done  and  the  things  she  had  wished 
for.  She  told  him  of  her  husband  and  this  new  farm 
they  were  trying  to  buy.  She  said  it  was  hard  to  get 
niggers  to  work.  She  said  they  ought  all  to  be  in  the 
chain-gang  and  made  to  work.  Even  then  some  ran 
away.  Only  yesterday  one  had  escaped,  and  another  the 
day  before. 

At  last  she  gossiped  of  her  neighbors,  how  good  they 
were  and  how  bad. 

"  And  do  you  like  them  all  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

She  hesitated. 

"  Most  of  them,"  she  said ;  and  then,  looking  up  into 
his  face  and  putting  her  hand  into  his,  as  though  he  were 
her  father,  she  said: 

"  Jhere  are  none  I  hate ;  no,  none  at  all." 


132  DARKWATER 

He  looked  away,  holding  her  hand  in  his,  and  said 
dreamily : 

"  You  love  your  neighbor  as  yourself  ?  " 
She  hesitated. 

"  I  try "  she  began,  and  then  looked  the  way  he 

was  looking;  down  under  the  hill  where  lay  a  little,  half- 
ruined  cabin. 

:<  They  are  niggers,"  she  said  briefly. 
He  looked  at  her.     Suddenly  a  confusion  came  over 
her  and  she  insisted,  she  knew  not  why. 
"  But  they  are  niggers !  " 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  arose  and  hurriedly  lighted 
the  lamp  that  stood  just  within  the  door,  and  held  it 
above  her  head.  She  saw  his  dark  face  and  curly  hair. 
She  shrieked  in  angry  terror  and  rushed  down  the  path, 
and  just  as  she  rushed  down,  the  black  convict  came 
running  up  with  hands  outstretched.  They  met  in  mid- 
path,  and  before  he  could  stop  he  had  run  against  her 
and  she  fell  heavily  to  earth  and  lay  white  and  still.  Her 
husband  came  rushing  around  the  house  with  a  cry 
and  an  oath. 

"  I  knew  it,"  he  said.  "  It's  that  runaway  nigger." 
He  held  the  black  man  struggling  to  the  earth  and  raised 
his  voice  to  a  yell.  Down  the  highway  came  the  con 
vict  guard,  with  hound  and  mob  and  gun.  They  paused 
across  the  fields.  The  farmer  motioneu  to  them. 
"  He — attacked — my  wife,"  he  gasped. 
The  mob  snarled  and  worked  silently.  Right  to  the 
limb  of  the  red  oak  they  hoisted  the  struggling,  writhing 
black  man,  while  others  lifted  the  dazed  woman.  Right 
and  left,  as  she  tottered  to  the  house,  she  searched  for 
the  stranger  with  a  yearning,  but  the  stranger  was  gone. 
And  she  told  none  of  her  guests. 

"  No — no,  I  want  nothing,"  she  insisted,  until  they 
left  her,  as  they  thought,  asleep.  For  a  time  she  lay 
still,  listening  to  the  departure  of  the  mob.  Then  she 
rose.  She  shuddered  as  she  heard  the  creaking  of  the 


JESUS  CHRIST  IN  TEXAS  133 

limb  where  the  body  hung.  But  resolutely  she  crawled 
to  the  window  and  peered  out  into  the  moonlight;  she 
saw  the  dead  man  writhe.  He  stretched  his  arms  out 
like  a  cross,  looking  upward.  She  gasped  and  clung 
to  the  window  sill.  Behind  the  swaying  body,  and 
down  where  the  little,  half-ruined  cabin  lay,  a  single 
flame  flashed  up  amid  the  far-off  shout  and  cry  of  the 
mob.  A  fierce  joy  sobbed  up  through  the  terror  in  her 
soul  and  then  sank  abashed  as  she  watched  the  flame 
rise.  Suddenly  whirling  into  one  great  crimson  column 
it  shot  to  the  top  of  the  sky  and  threw  great  arms 
athwart  the  gloom  until  above  the  world  and  behind 
the  roped  and  swaying  form  below  hung  quivering  and 
burning  a  great  crimson  cross. 

She  hid  her  dizzy,  aching  head  in  an  agony  of  tears, 
and  dared  not  look,  for  she  knew.  Her  dry  lips  moved : 

"  Despised  and  rejected  of  men." 

She  knew,  and  the  very  horror  of  it  lifted  her  dull 
and  shrinking  eyelids.  There,  heaven-tall,  earth-wide, 
hung  the  stranger  on  the  crimson  cross,  riven  and  blood 
stained,  with  thorn-crowned  head  and  pierced  hands.  She 
stretched  her  arms  and  shrieked. 

He  did  not  hear.  He  did  not  see.  His  calm  dark 
eyes,  all  sorrowful,  were  fastened  on  the  writhing,  twist 
ing  body  of  the  thief,  and  a  voice  came  out  of  the  winds 
of  the  night,  saying: 

"  This  day  thou  shalt  be  with  me  in  Paradise ! " 


VI 

OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN 

THE  ruling  of  men  is  the  effort  to  direct  the  individual 
actions  of  many  persons  toward  some  end.  This  end 
theoretically  should  be  the  greatest  good  of  all,  but 
no  human  group  has  ever  reached  this  ideal  because 
of  ignorance  and  selfishness.  The  simplest  object 
would  be  rule  for  the  Pleasure  of  One,  namely  the 
Ruler;  or  of  the  Few — his  favorites;  or  of  many — the 
Rich,  the  Privileged,  the  Powerful.  Democratic 
movements  inside  groups  and  nations  are  always  tak 
ing  place  and  they  are  the  efforts  to  increase  the 
number  of  beneficiaries  of  the  ruling.  In  i8th  cen 
tury  Europe,  the  effort  became  so  broad  and  sweep 
ing  that  an  attempt  was  made  at  universal  expression 
and  the  philosophy  of  the  movement  said  that  if  All 
ruled  they  would  rule  for  All  and  thus  Universal  Good 
was  sought  through  Universal  Suffrage. 

The  unrealized  difficulty  of  this  program  lay  in  the 
widespread  ignorance.  The  mass  of  men,  even  of 
the  more  intelligent  men,  not  only  knew  little  about 
each  other  but  less  about  the  action  of  men  in  groups 
and  the  technique  of  industry  in  general.  They  could 
only  apply  universal  suffrage,  therefore,  to  the  things 
they  knew  or  knew  partially :  they  knew  personal  and 
menial  service,  individual  craftsmanship,  agriculture 

134 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  135 

and  barter,  taxes  or  the  taking  of  private  property 
for  public  ends  and  the  rent  of  land.  With  these 
matters  then  they  attempted  to  deal.  Under  the  cry 
of  "  Freedom  "  they  greatly  relaxed  the  grip  of  selfish 
interests  by  restricting  menial  service,  securing  the 
right  of  property  in  handiwork  and  regulating  public 
taxes;  distributing  land  ownership  and  freeing  trade 
and  barter. 

While  they  were  doing  this  against  stubborn  re 
sistance,  a  whole  new  organization  of  work  suddenly 
appeared.  The  suddenness  of  this  "  Industrial  Revo 
lution  "  of  the  iQth  century  was  partly  fortuitous — 
in  the  case  of  Watt's  teakettle — partly  a  natural  de 
velopment,  as  in  the  matter  of  spinning,  but  largely 
the  determination  of  powerful  and  intelligent  individ 
uals  to  secure  the  benefits  of  privileged  persons,  as 
in  the  case  of  foreign  slave  trade. 

The  result  was  on  the  one  hand  a  vast  and  un 
exampled  development  of  industry.  Life  and  civili 
zation  in  the  late  igth  and  early  2Oth  century  were 
Industry  in  its  whole  conception,  language,  and  ac 
complishment:  the  object  of  life  was  to  make  goods. 
Now  before  this  giant  aspect  of  things,  the  new 
democracy  stood  aghast  and  impotent.  It  could  not 
rule  because  it  did  not  understand :  an  invincible  king 
dom  of  trade,  business,  and  commerce  ruled  the  world, 
and  before  its  threshold  stood  the  Freedom  of  i8th 
century  philosophy  warding  the  way.  Some  of  the 
very  ones  who  were  freed  from  the  tyranny  of  the 
Middle  Age  became  the  tyrants  of  the  industrial  age. 

There  came  a  reaction.     Men  sneered  at  "  democ- 


136  DARKWATER 

racy  "  and  politics,  and  brought  forth  Fate  and  Philan 
thropy  to  rule  the  world — Fate  which  gave  divine 
right  to  rule  to  the  Captains  of  Industry  and  their 
created  Millionaires;  Philanthropy  which  organized 
vast  schemes  of  relief  to  stop  at  least  the  flow  of 
blood  in  the  vaster  wounds  which  industry  was 
making. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  lowest  laborers,  who 
worked  hardest,  got  least  and  suffered  most,  began 
to  mutter  and  rebel,  and  among  these  were  the  Amer 
ican  Negroes.  Lions  have  no  historians,  and  there 
fore  lion  hunts  are  thrilling  and  satisfactory  human 
reading.  Negroes  had  no  bards,  and  therefore  it  has 
been  widely  told  how  American  philanthropy  freed 
the  slave.  In  truth  the  Negro  revolted  by  armed  re 
bellion,  by  sullen  refusal  to  work,  by  poison  and  mur 
der,  by  running  away  to  the  North  and  Canada,  by 
giving  point  and  powerful  example  to  the  agitation 
of  the  abolitionists  and  by  furnishing  200,000  soldiers 
and  many  times  as  many  civilian  helpers  in  the  Civil 
War.  This  war  was  not  a  war  for  Negro  freedom, 
but  a  duel  between  two  industrial  systems,  one  of 
which  was  bound  to  fail  because  it  was  an  anachron 
ism,  and  the  other  bound  to  succeed  because  of  the 
Industrial  Revolution. 

When  now  the  Negro  was  freed  the  Philanthropists 
sought  to  apply  to  his  situation  the  Philosophy  of 
Democracy  handed  down  from  the  i8th  century. 

There  was  a  chance  here  to  try  democratic  rule 
in  a  new  way,  that  is,  against  the  new  industrial  op 
pression  with  a  mass  of  workers  who  were  not  yet 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  137 

in  its  control.  With  plenty  of  land  widely  distributed, 
staple  products  like  cotton,  rice,  and  sugar  cane,  and 
a  thorough  system  of  education,  there  was  a  unique 
chance  to  realize  a  new  modern  democracy  in  industry 
in  the  southern  United  States  which  would  point 
the  way  to  the  world.  This,  too,  if  done  by  black  folk, 
would  have  tended  to  a  new  unity  of  human  beings 
and  an  obliteration  of  human  hatreds  festering  along 
the  color  line. 

Efforts  were  begun.  The  I4th  and  I5th  amend 
ments  gave  the  right  to  vote  to  white  and  black  la 
borers,  and  they  immediately  established  a  public 
school  system  and  began  to  attack  the  land  question. 
The  United  States  government  was  seriously  consider 
ing  the  distribution  of  land  and  capital — "  40  acres 
and  a  mule  " — and  the  price  of  cotton  opened  an  easy 
way  to  economic  independence.  Co-operative  move 
ments  began  on  a  large  scale. 

But  alas!  Not  only  were  the  former  slave-owners 
solidly  arrayed  against  this  experiment,  but  the  owners 
of  the  industrial  North  saw  disaster  in  any  such  be 
ginnings  of  industrial  democracy.  The  opposition 
based  its  objections  on  the  color  line,  and  Recon 
struction  became  in  history  a  great  movement  for  the 
self-assertion  of  the  white  race  against  the  impudent 
ambition  of  degraded  blacks,  instead  of,  in  truth,  the 
rise  of  a  mass  of  black  and  white  laborers. 

The  result  was  the  disfranchisement  of  the  blacks 
of  the  South  and  a  world-wide  attempt  to  restrict 
democratic  development  to  white  races  and  to  dis 
tract  them  with  race  hatred  against  the  darker  races. 


138  DARKWATER 

This  program,  however,  although  it  undoubtedly 
helped  raise  the  scale  of  white  labor,  in  much  greater 
proportion  put  wealth  and  power  in  the  hands  of  the 
great  European  Captains  of  Industry  and  made  mod 
ern  industrial  imperialism  possible. 

This  led  to  renewed  efforts  on  the  part  of  white 
European  workers  to  understand  and  apply  their  po 
litical  power  to  its  reform  through  democratic  con 
trol. 

Whether  known  as  Communism  or  Socialism  or 
what  not,  these  efforts  are  neither  new  nor  strange 
nor  terrible,  but  world-old  and  seeking  an  absolutely 
justifiable  human  ideal — the  only  ideal  that  can  be 
sought:  the  direction  of  individual  action  in  industry 
so  as  to  secure  the  greatest  good  of  all.  Marxism  was 
one  method  of  accomplishing  this,  and  its  panacea 
was  the  doing  away  with  private  property  in  machines 
and  materials.  Two  mighty  attacks  were  made  on 
this  proposal.  One  was  an  attack  on  the  fundamental 
democratic  foundation:  modern  European  white  in 
dustry  does  not  even  theoretically  seek  the  good  of 
all,  but  simply  of  all  Europeans.  This  attack  was 
virtually  unanswered — indeed  some  Socialists  openly 
excluded  Negroes  and  Asiatics  from  their  scheme. 
From  this  it  was  easy  to  drift  into  that  form  of 
syndicalism  which  asks  socialism  for  the  skilled 
laborer  only  and  leaves  the  common  laborer  in  his 
bonds. 

This  throws  us  back  on  fundamentals.  It  compels 
us  again  to  examine  the  roots  of  democracy. 

Who  may  be  excluded  from  a  share  in  the  ruling 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  139 

of  men?     Time  and  time  again  the  world  has  an 
swered  : 

The  Ignorant 
The  Inexperienced 
The  Guarded 
The  Unwilling 

That  is,  we  have  assumed  that  only  the  intelligent 
should  vote,  or  those  who  know  how  to  rule  men,  or 
those  who  are  not  under  benevolent  guardianship,  or 
those  who  ardently  desire  the  right. 

These  restrictions  are  not  arguments  for  the  wide 
distribution  of  the  ballot — they  are  rather  reasons  for 
restriction  addressed  to  the  self-interest  of  the  present 
real  rulers.  We  say  easily,  for  instance,  "  The  igno 
rant  ought  not  to  vote."  We  would  say,  "  No  civilized 
state  should  have  citizens  too  ignorant  to  participate 
in  government,"  and  this  statement  is  but  a  step  to 
the  fact:  that  no  state  is  civilized  which  has  citizens 
too  ignorant  to  help  rule  it.  Or,  in  other  words,  ed 
ucation  is  not  a  prerequisite  to  political  control — polit 
ical  control  is  the  cause  of  popular  education. 

Again,  to  make  experience  a  qualification  for  the 
franchise  is  absurd:  it  would  stop  the  spread  of  de 
mocracy  and  make  political  power  hereditary,  a  pre 
requisite  of  a  class,  caste,  race,  or  sex.  It  has  of  course 
been  soberly  argued  that  only  white  folk  or  English 
men,  or  men,  are  really  capable  of  exercising  sovereign 
power  in  a  modern  state.  The  statement  proves  too 
much :  only  yesterday  it  was  Englishmen  of  high  de- 


HO  DARKWATER 

scent,  or  men  of  "  blood,"  or  sovereigns  "  by  divine 
right "  who  could  rule.  Today  the  civilized  world 
is  being  ruled  by  the  descendants  of  persons  who  a 
century  ago  were  pronounced  incapable  of  ever  devel 
oping  a  self -ruling  people.  In  every  modern  state 
there  must  come  to  the  polls  every  generation,  and 
indeed  every  year,  men  who  are  inexperienced  in  the 
solutions  of  the  political  problems  that  confront  them 
and  who  must  experiment  in  methods  of  ruling  men. 
Thus  and  thus  only  will  civilization  grow. 

Again,  what  is  this  theory  of  benevolent  guardian 
ship  for  women,  for  the  masses,  for  Negroes — for 
"  lesser  breeds  without  the  law  "  ?  It  is  simply  the 
old  cry  of  privilege,  the  old  assumption  that  there  are 
those  in  the  world  who  know  better  what  is  best  for 
others  than  those  others  know  themselves,  and  who 
can  be  trusted  to  do  this  best. 

In  fact  no  one  knows  himself  but  that  self's  own 
soul.  The  vast  and  wonderful  knowledge  of  this  mar 
velous  universe  is  locked  in  the  bosoms  of  its  indi 
vidual  souls.  To  tap  this  mighty  reservoir  of  ex 
perience,  knowledge,  beauty,  love,  and  deed  we  must 
appeal  not  to  the  few,  not  to  some  souls,  but  to  all. 
The  narrower  the  appeal,  the  poorer  the  culture;  the 
wider  the  appeal  the  more  magnificent  are  the  possi 
bilities.  Infinite  is  human  nature.  We  make  it  finite 
by  choking  back  the  mass  of  men,  by  attempting  to 
speak  for  others,  to  interpret  and  act  for  them,  and 
we  end  by  acting  for  ourselves  and  using  the  world 
as  our  private  property.  If  this  were  all,  it  were 
crime  enough — but  it  is  not  all :  by  our  ignorance  we 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  141 

make  the  creation  of  the  greater  world  impossible; 
we  beat  back  a  world  built  of  the  playing  of  dogs 
and  laughter  of  children,  the  song  of  Black  Folk  and 
worship  of  Yellow,  the  love  of  women  and  strength 
of  men,  and  try  to  express  by  a  group  of  doddering 
ancients  the  Will  of  the  World. 

There  are  people  who  insist  upon  regarding  the 
franchise,  not  as  a  necessity  for  the  many,  but  as  a 
privilege  for  the  few.  They  say  of  persons  and 
classes:  "They  do  not  need  the  ballot."  This  is 
often  said  of  women.  It  is  argued  that  everything 
which  women  with  the  ballot  might  do  for  themselves 
can  be  done  for  them;  that  they  have  influence  and 
friends  "  at  court,"  and  that  their  enfranchisement 
would  simply  double  the  number  of  ballots.  So,  too, 
we  are  told  that  American  Negroes  can  have  done  for 
them  by  other  voters  all  that  they  could  possibly  do 
for  themselves  with  the  ballot  and  much  more  be 
cause  the  white  voters  are  more  intelligent. 

Further  than  this,  it  is  argued  that  many  of  the 
disfranchised  people  recognize  these  facts.  "  Women 
do  not  want  the  ballot "  has  been  a  very  effective 
counter  war-cry,  so  much  so  that  many  men  have 
taken  refuge  in  the  declaration :  "  When  they  want  to 

vote,  why,  then "  So,  too,  we  are  continually 

told  that  the  "  best "  Negroes  stay  out  of  politics. 

Such  arguments  show  so  curious  a  misapprehen 
sion  of  the  foundation  of  the  argument  for  democracy 
that  the  argument  must  be  continually  restated  and 
emphasized.  We  must  remember  that  if  the  theory 
of  democracy  is  correct,  the  right  to  vote  is  not  merely 


H2  DARKWATER 

a  privilege,  not  simply  a  method  of  meeting  the  needs 
of  a  particular  group,  and  least  of  all  a  matter  of 
recognized  want  or  desire.  Democracy  is  a  method  of 
realizing  the  broadest  measure  of  justice  to  all  human 
beings.  The  world  has,  in  the  past,  attempted  various 
methods  of  attaining  this  end,  most  of  which  can  be 
summed  up  in  three  categories: 

The  method  of  the  benevolent  tyrant. 
The  method  of  the  select  few. 
The  method  of  the  excluded  groups. 

The  method  of  intrusting  the  government  of  a 
people  to  a  strong  ruler  has  great  advantages  when 
the  ruler  combines  strength  with  ability,  unselfish  de 
votion  to  the  public  good,  and  knowledge  of  what 
that  good  calls  for.  Such  a  combination  is,  however, 
rare  and  the  selection  of  the  right  ruler  is  very  diffi 
cult.  To  leave  the  selection  to  force  is  to  put  a  pre 
mium  on  physical  strength,  chance,  and  intrigue;  to 
make  the  selection  a  matter  of  birth  simply  transfers 
the  real  power  from  sovereign  to  minister.  Inevit 
ably  the  choice  of  rulers  must  fall  on  electors. 

Then  comes  the  problem,  who  shall  elect.  The 
earlier  answer  was :  a  select  few,  such  as  the  wise,  the 
best  born,  the  able.  Many  people  assume  that  it  was 
corruption  that  made  such  aristocracies  fail.  By  no 
means.  The  best  and  most  effective  aristocracy,  like 
the  best  monarchy,  suffered  from  lack  of  knowledge. 
The  rulers  did  not  know  or  understand  the  needs  of 
the  people  and  they  could  not  find  out,  for  in  the 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  143 

last  analysis  only  the  man  himself,  however  humble, 
knows  his  own  condition.  He  may  not  know  how  to 
remedy  it,  he  may  not  realize  just  what  is  the  matter; 
but  he  knows  when  something  hurts  and  he  alone 
knows  how  that  hurt  feels.  Or  if  sunk  below  feeling 
or  comprehension  or  complaint,  he  does  not  even  know 
that  he  is  hurt,  God  help  his  country,  for  it  not  only 
lacks  knowledge,  but  has  destroyed  :the  sources  of 
knowledge. 

So  soon  as  a  nation  discovers  that  it  holds  in  the 
heads  and  hearts  of  its  individual  citizens  the  vast 
mine  of  knowledge,  out  of  which  it  may  build  a 
just  government,  then  more  and  more  it  calls  those 
citizens  to  select  their  rulers  and  to  judge  the  justice  of 
their  acts. 

Even  here,  however,  the  temptation  is  to  ask  only 
for  the  wisdom  of  citizens  of  a  certain  grade  or  those 
of  recognized  worth.  Continually  some  classes  are 
tacitly  or  expressly  excluded.  Thus  women  have  been 
excluded  from  modern  democracy  because  of  the  per 
sistent  theory  of  female  subjection  and  because  it  was 
argued  that  their  husbands  or  other  male  folks  would 
look  to  their  interests.  Now,  manifestly,  most  hus 
bands,  fathers,  and  brothers,  will,  so  far  as  they  know 
how  or  as  they  realize  women's  needs,  look  after 
them.  But  remember  the  foundation  of  the  argument, 
— that  in  the  last  analysis  only  the  sufferer  knows  his 
sufferings  and  that  no  state  can  be  strong  which 
excludes  from  its  expressed  wisdom  the  knowledge 
possessed  by  mothers,  wives,  and  daughters.  We  have 
but  to  view  the  unsatisfactory  relations  of  the  sexes 


144  DARKWATER 

the  world  over  and  the  problem  of  children  to  realize 
how  desperately  we  need  this  excluded  wisdom. 

The  same  arguments  apply  to  other  excluded  groups : 
if  a  race,  like  the  Negro  race,  is  excluded,  then  so 
far  as  that  race  is  a  part  of  the  economic  and  social 
organization  of  the  land,  the  feeling  and  the  experi 
ence  of  that  race  are  absolutely  necessary  to  the  reali 
zation  of  the  broadest  justice  for  all  citizens.  Or  if 
the  "  submerged  tenth  "  be  excluded,  then  again,  there 
is  lost  from  the  world  an  experience  of  untold  value, 
and  they  must  be  raised  rapidly  to  a  place  where  they 
can  speak  for  themselves.  In  the  same  way  and  for 
the  same  reason  children  must  be  educated,  insanity 
prevented,  and  only  those  put  under  the  guardianship 
of  others  who  can  in  no  way  be  trained  to  speak  for 
themselves. 

The  real  argument  for  democracy  is,  then,  that  in 
the  people  we  have  the  source  of  that  endless  life  and 
unbounded  wisdom  which  the  rulers  of  men  must 
have.  A1  given  people  today  may  not  be  intelligent, 
but  through  a  democratic  government  that  recognizes, 
not  only  the  worth  of  the  individual  to  himself,  but 
the  worth  of  his  feelings  and  experiences  to  all,  they 
can  educate,  not  only  the  individual  unit,  but  genera 
tion  after  generation,  until  they  accumulate  vast  stores 
of  wisdom.  Democracy  alone  is  the  method  of  show 
ing  the  whole  experience  of  the  race  for  the  benefit 
of  the  future  and  if  democracy  tries  to  exclude  women 
or  Negroes  or  the  poor  or  any  class  because  of  innate 
characteristics  which  do  not  interfere  with  intelligence, 
then  that  democracy  cripples  itself  and  belies  its  name. 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  145 

From  this  point  of  view  we  can  easily  see  the  weak 
ness  and  strength  of  current  criticism  of  extension  of 
the  ballot.  It  is  the  business  of  a  modern  government 
to  see  to  it,  first,  that  the  number  of  ignorant  within 
its  bounds  is  reduced  to  the  very  smallest  number. 
Again,  it  is  the  duty  of  every  such  government  to  ex 
tend  as  quickly  as  possible  the  number  of  persons  of 
mature  age  who  can  vote.  Such  possible  voters 
must  be  regarded,  not  as  sharers  of  a  limited  treas 
ure,  but  as  sources  of  new  national  wisdom  and 
strength. 

The  addition  of  the  new  wisdom,  the  new  points  of 
view,  and  the  new  interests  must,  of  course,  be  from 
time  to  time  bewildering  and  confusing.  Today  those 
who  have  a  voice  in  the  body  politic  have  expressed 
their  wishes  and  sufferings.  The  result  has  been  a 
smaller  or  greater  balancing  of  their  conflicting  in 
terests.  The  appearance  of  new  interests  and  com 
plaints  means  disarrangement  and  confusion  to  the 
older  equilibrium.  It  is,  of  course,  the  inevitable  pre 
liminary  step  to  that  larger  equilibrium  in  which  the 
interests  of  no  human  soul  will  be  neglected.  These 
interests  will  not,  surely,  be  all  fully  realized,  but 
they  will  be  recognized  and  given  as  full  weight  as 
the  conflicting  interests  will  allow.  The  problem  of 
government  thereafter  would  be  to  reduce  the  neces 
sary  conflict  of  human  interests  to  the  minimum. 

From  such  a  point  of  view  one  easily  sees  the 
strength  of  the  demand  for  the  ballot  on  the  part  of 
certain  disfranchised  classes.  When  women  ask  for 
the  ballot,  they  are  asking,  not  for  a  privilege,  but 


146  DARKWATER 

for  a  necessity.  You  may  not  see  the  necessity,  you 
may  easily  argue  that  women  do  not  need  to  vote. 
Indeed,  the  women  themselves  in  considerable  numbers 
may  agree  with  you.  Nevertheless,  women  do  need 
the  ballot.  They  need  it  to  right  the  balance  of  a 
world  sadly  awry  because  of  its  brutal  neglect  of  the 
rights  of  women  and  children.  With  the  best  will 
and  knowledge,  no  man  can  know  women's  wants  as 
well  as  women  themselves.  To  disfranchise  women 
is  deliberately  to  turn  from  knowledge  and  grope  in 
ignorance. 

So,  too,  with  American  Negroes:  the  South  con 
tinually  insists  that  a  benevolent  guardianship  of  whites 
over  blacks  is  the  ideal  thing.  They  assume  that  white 
people  not  only  know  better  what  Negroes  need  than 
Negroes  themselves,  but  that  they  are  anxious  to  sup 
ply  these  needs.  As  a  result  they  grope  in  ignorance 
and  helplessness.  They  cannot  "  understand  "  the 
Negro;  they  cannot  protect  him  from  cheating  and 
lynching;  and,  in  general,  instead  of  loving  guardian 
ship  we  see  anarchy  and  exploitation.  If  the  Negro 
could  speak  for  himself  in  the  South  instead  of  be 
ing  spoken  for,  if  he  could  defend  himself  instead  of 
having  to  depend  on  the  chance  sympathy  of  white 
citizens,  how  much  healthier  a  growth  of  democracy 
the  South  would  have. 

So,  too,  with  the  darker  races  of  the  world.  No 
federation  of  the  world,  no  true  inter-nation — can  ex 
clude  the  black  and  brown  and  yellow  races  from  its 
counsels.  They  must  equally  and  according  to  number 
act  and  be  heard  at  the  \Mt>rld's  council. 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  147 

It  is  not,  for  a  moment,  to  be  assumed  that  en 
franchising  women  will  not  cost  something.  It  will 
for  many  years  confuse  our  politics.  It  may  even 
change  the  present  status  of  family  life.  It  will  admit 
to  the  ballot  thousands  of  inexperienced  persons,  un 
able  to  vote  intelligently.  Above  all,  it  will  interfere 
with  some  of  the  present  prerogatives  of  men  and 
probably  for  some  time  to  come  annoy  them  con 
siderably. 

So,  too,  Negro  enfranchisement  meant  reconstruc 
tion,  with  its  theft  and  bribery  and  incompetency  as 
well  as  its  public  schools  and  enlightened,  social  legisla 
tion.  It  would  mean  today  that  black  men  in  the 
South  would  have  to  be  treated  with  consideration, 
have  their  wishes  respected  and  their  manhood  rights 
recognized.  Every  white  Southerner,  who  wants  peons 
beneath  him,  who  believes  in  hereditary  menials  and  a 
privileged  aristocracy,  or  who  hates  certain  races  be 
cause  of  their  characteristics,  would  resent  this. 

Notwithstanding  this,  if  America  is  ever  to  become 
a  government  built  on  the  broadest  justice  to  every 
citizen,  then  every  citizen  must  be  enfranchised.  There 
may  be  temporary  exclusions,  until  the  ignorant  and 
their  children  are  taught,  or  to  avoid  too  sudden  an 
influx  of  inexperienced  voters.  But  such  exclusions 
can  be  but  temporary  if  justice  is  to  prevail. 

The  principle  of  basing  all  government  on  the  con 
sent  of  the  governed  is  undenied  and  undeniable. 
Moreover,  the  method  of  modern  democracy  has  placed 
within  reach  of  the  modern  state  larger  reserves  of 
efficiency,  ability,  and  even  genius  than  the  ancient  or 


148  DARKWATER 

mediaeval  state  dreamed  of.  That  this  great  work  of 
the  past  can  be  carried  further  among  all  races  and 
nations  no  one  can  reasonably  doubt. 

Great  as  are  our  human  differences  and  capabilities 
there  is  not  the  slightest  scientific  reason  for  assum 
ing  that  a  given  human  being  of  any  race  or  sex  can 
not  reach  normal,  human  development  if  he  is  granted 
a  reasonable  chance.  This  is,  of  course,  denied.  It 
is  denied  so  volubly  and  so  frequently  and  with  such 
positive  conviction  that  the  majority  of  unthinking 
people  seem  to  assume  that  most  human  beings  are  not 
human  and  have  no  right  to  human  treatment  or  hu 
man  opportunity.  All  this  goes  to  prove  that  human 
beings  are,  and  must  be,  woefully  ignorant  of  each 
other.  It  always  startles  us  to  find  folks  thinking 
like  ourselves.  We  do  not  really  associate  with  each 
other,  we  associate  with  our  ideas  of  each  other,  and 
few  people  have  either  the  ability  or  courage  to  ques 
tion  their  own  ideas.  None  have  more  persistently 
and  dogmatically  insisted  upon  the  inherent  inferior 
ity  of  women  than  the  men  with  whom  they  come  in 
closest  contact.  It  is  the  husbands,  brothers,  and 
sons  of  women  whom  it  has  been  most  difficult  to  in 
duce  to  consider  women  seriously  or  to  acknowledge 
that  women  have  rights  which  men  are  bound  to 
respect.  So,  too,  it  is  those  people  who  live  in  closest 
contact  with  black  folk  who  have  most  unhesitatingly 
asserted  the  utter  impossibility  of  living  beside  Ne 
groes  who  are  not  industrial  or  political  slaves  or 
social  pariahs.  All  this  proves  that  none  are  so  blind 
as  those  nearest  the  thing  seen,  while,  on  the  other 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  149 

hand,  the  history  of  the  world  is  the  history  of  the 
discovery  of  the  common  humanity  of  human  beings 
among  steadily-increasing  circles  of  men. 

If  the  foundations  of  democracy  are  thus  seen  to 
be  sound,  how  are  we  going  to  make  democracy  ef 
fective  where  it  now  fails  to  function — particularly 
in  industry?  The  Marxists  assert  that  industrial  de 
mocracy  will  automatically  follow  public  ownership  of 
machines  and  materials.  Their  opponents  object  that 
nationalization  of  machines  and  materials  would  not 
suffice  because  the  mass  of  people  do  not  understand 
the  industrial  process.  They  do  not  know: 

What  to  do 

How  to  do  it 

Who  could  do  it  best 

or 
How  to  apportion  the  resulting  goods. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  monopoly  of  ma 
chines  and  materials  is  a  chief  source  of  the  power  of 
industrial  tyrants  over  the  common  worker  and  that 
monopoly  today  is  due  as  much  to  chance  and  cheat 
ing  as  to  thrift  and  intelligence.  So  far  as  it  is 
due  to  chance  and  cheating,  the  argument  for  public 
ownership  of  capital  is  incontrovertible  even  though 
it  involves  some  interference  with  long  vested  rights 
and  inheritance.  This  is  being  widely  recognized  in 
the  whole  civilized  world.  But  how  about  the  accu 
mulation  of  goods  due  to  thrift  and  intelligence — 
would  democracy  in  industry  interfere  here  to  such 


150  DARKWATER 

an  extent  as  to  discourage  enterprise  and  make  im 
possible  the  intelligent  direction  of  the  mighty  and 
intricate  industrial  process  of  modern  times? 

The  knowledge  of  what  to  do  in  industry  and  how 
to  do  it  in  order  to  attain  the  resulting  goods  rests  in 
the  hands  and  brains  of  the  workers  and  managers, 
and  the  judges  of  the  result  are  the  public.  Conse 
quently  it  is  not  so  much  a  question  as  to  whether  the 
world  will  admit  democratic  control  here  as  how  can 
such  control  be  long  avoided  when  the  people  once 
understand  the  fundamentals  of  industry.  How  can 
civilization  persist  in  letting  one  person  or  a  group 
of  persons,  by  secret  inherent  power,  determine  what 
goods  shall  be  made — whether  bread  or  champagne, 
overcoats  or  silk  socks  ?  Can  so  vast  a  power  be  kept 
from  the  people? 

But  it  may  be  opportunely  asked:  has  our  experi 
ence  in  electing  public  officials  led  us  to  think  that  we 
could  run  railways,  cotton  mills,  and  department  stores 
by  popular  vote  ?  The  answer  is  clear :  no,  it  has  not, 
and  the  reason  has  been  lack  of  interest  in  politics 
and  the  tyranny  of  the  Majority.  Politics  have  not 
touched  the  matters  of  daily  life  which  are  nearest  the 
interests  of  the  people — namely,  work  and  wages;  or 
if  they  have,  they  have  touched  it  obscurely  and  in 
directly.  When  voting  touches  the  vital,  everyday  in 
terests  of  all,  nominations  and  elections  will  call  for 
more  intelligent  activity.  Consider  too  the  vast  un 
used  and  misused  power  of  public  rewards  to  obtain 
ability  and  genius  for  the  service  of  the  state.  If 
millionaires  can  buy  science  and  art,  cannot  the  Demo- 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  151 

cratic  state  outbid  them  not  only  with  money  but  with 
the  vast  ideal  of  the  common  weal  ? 

There  still  remains,  however,  the  problem  of  the 
Majority. 

What  is  the  cause  of  the  undoubted  reaction  and 
alarm  that  the  citizens  of  democracy  continually  feel? 
It  is,  I  am  sure,  the  failure  to  feel  the  full  significance 
of  the  change  of  rule  from  a  privileged  minority  to 
that  of  an  omnipotent  majority,  and  the  assumption 
that  mere  majority  rule  is  the  last  word  of  govern 
ment;  that  majorities  have  no  responsibilities,  that 
they  rule  by  the  grace  of  God.  Granted  that  govern 
ment  should  be  based  on  the  consent  of  the  governed, 
does  the  consent  of  a  majority  at  any  particular  time 
adequately  express  the  consent  of  all?  Has  the  mi 
nority,  even  though  a  small  and  unpopular  and  un 
fashionable  minority,  no  right  to  respectful  consid 
eration  ? 

I  remember  that  excellent  little  high  school  text 
book,  "  NordhofFs  Politics,"  where  I  first  read  of  gov 
ernment,  saying  this  sentence  at  the  beginning  of  its 
most  important  chapter :  "  The  first  duty  of  a  mi 
nority  is  to  become  a  majority."  This  is  a  state 
ment  which  has  its  underlying  truth,  but  it  also  has 
its  dangerous  falsehood;  viz.,  any  minority  which  can 
not  become  a  majority  is  not  worthy  of  any  considera 
tion.  But  suppose  that  the  out-voted  minority  is 
necessarily  always  a  minority  ?  Women,  for  instance, 
can  seldom  expect  to  be  a  majority;  artists  must  al 
ways  be  the  few;  ability  is  always  rare,  and  black 
folk  in  this  land  are  but  a  tenth.  Yet  to  tyrannize 


152  DARKWATER 

over  such  minorities,  to  browbeat  and  insult  them,  to 
call  that  government  a  democracy  which  makes  ma 
jority  votes  an  excuse  for  crushing  ideas  and  individu 
ality  and  self-development,  is  manifestly  a  peculiarly 
dangerous  perversion  of  the  real  democratic  ideal.  It 
is  right  here,  in  its  method  and  not  in  its  object,  that 
democracy  in  America  and  elsewhere  has  so  often 
failed.  We  have  attempted  to  enthrone  any  chance 
majority  and  make  it  rule  by  divine  right.  We  have 
kicked  and  cursed  minorities  as  upstarts  and  usurpers 
when  their  sole  offense  lay  in  not  having  ideas  or  hair 
like  ours.  Efficiency,  ability,  and  genius  found  often 
no  abiding  place  in  such  a  soil  as  this.  Small  wonder 
that  revolt  has  come  and  high-handed  methods  are 
rife,  of  pretending  that  policies  which  we  favor  or  per 
sons  that  we  like  have  the  anointment  of  a  purely 
imaginary  majority  vote. 

Are  the  methods  of  such  a  revolt  wise,  howsoever 
great  the  provocation  and  evil  may  be?  If  the  abso 
lute  monarchy  of  majorities  is  galling  and  inefficient, 
is  it  any  more  inefficient  than  the  absolute  monarchy 
of  individuals  or  privileged  classes  have  been  found  to 
be  in  the  past  ?  Is  the  appeal  from  a  numerous-minded 
despot  to  a  smaller,  privileged  group  or  to  one  man 
likely  to  remedy  matters  permanently  ?  Shall  we  step 
backward  a  thousand  years  because  our  present  prob 
lem  is  baffling? 

Surely  not  and  surely,  too,  the  remedy  for  absolut 
ism  lies  in  calling  these  same  minorities  to  council. 
As  the  king-in-council  succeeded  the  king  by  the  grace 
of  God,  so  in  future  democracies  the  toleration  and 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  153 

encouragement  of  minorities  and  the  willingness  to 
consider  as  "  men  "  the  crankiest,  humblest  and  poor 
est  and  blackest  peoples,  must  be  the  real  key  to  the 
consent  of  the  governed.  Peoples  and  governments 
will  not  in  the  future  assume  that  because  they  have 
the  brute  power  to  enforce  momentarily  dominant 
ideas,  it  is  best  to  do  so  without  thoughtful  con 
ference  with  the  ideas  of  smaller  groups  and  individu 
als.  Proportionate  representation  in  physical  and 
spiritual  form  must  come. 

That  this  method  is  virtually  coming  in  vogue  we 
can  see  by  the  minority  groups  of  modern  legislatures. 
Instead  of  the  artificial  attempts  to  divide  all  possible 
ideas  and  plans  between  two  great  parties,  modern 
legislatures  in  advanced  nations  tend  to  develop  smaller 
and  smaller  minority  groups,  while  government  is  car 
ried  on  by  temporary  coalitions.  For  a  time  we  in 
veighed  against  this  and  sought  to  consider  it  a  per 
version  of  the  only  possible  method  of  practical  de 
mocracy.  Today  we  are  gradually  coming  to  realize 
that  government  by  temporary  coalition  of  small  and 
diverse  groups  may  easily  become  the  most  efficient 
method  of  expressing  the  will  of  man  and  of  setting 
the  human  soul  free.  The  only  hindrance  to  the 
faster  development  of  this  government  by  allied  mi 
norities  is  the  fear  of  external  war  which  is  used 
again  and  again  to  melt  these  living,  human,  thinking 
groups  into  inhuman,  thoughtless,  and  murdering  ma 
chines. 

The  persons,  then,  who  come  forward  in  the  dawn 
of  the  2Oth  century  to  help  in  the  ruling  of  men 


154  DARKWATER 

must  come  with  the  firm  conviction  that  no  nation, 
race,  or  sex,  has  a  monopoly  of  ability  or  ideas;  that 
no  human  group  is  so  small  as  to  deserve  to  be  ig 
nored  as  a  part,  and  as  an  integral  and  respected  part, 
of  the  mass  of  men;  that,  above  all,  no  group  of 
twelve  million  black  folk,  even  though  they  are  at  the 
physical  mercy  of  a  hundred  million  white  majority, 
can  be  deprived  of  a  voice  in  their  government  and 
of  the  right  to  self -development  without  a  blow  at 
the  very  foundations  of  all  democracy  and  all  hu 
man  uplift;  that  the  very  criticism  aimed  today  at 
universal  suffrage  is  in  reality  a  demand  for  power 
on  the  part  of  consciously  efficient  minorities, — but 
these  minorities  face  a  fatal  blunder  when  they  as 
sume  that  less  democracy  will  give  them  and  their 
kind  greater  efficiency.  However  desperate  the  temp 
tation,  no  modern  nation  can  shut  the  gates  of  oppor 
tunity  in  the  face  of  its  women,  its  peasants,  its  la 
borers,  or  its  socially  damned.  How  astounded  the 
future  world-citizen  will  be  to  know  that  as  late  as 
1918  great  and  civilized  nations  were  making  des 
perate  endeavor  to  confine  the  development  of  ability 
and  individuality  to  one  sex, — that  is,  to  one-half  of 
the  nation;  and  he  will  probably  learn  that  similar 
effort  to  confine  humanity  to  one  race  lasted  a  hundred 
years  longer. 

The  doctrine  of  the  divine  right  of  majorities  leads 
to  almost  humorous  insistence  on  a  dead  level  of  medi 
ocrity.  It  demands  that  all  people  be  alike  or  that  they 
be  ostracized.  At  the  same  time  its  greatest  accusa 
tion  against  rebels  is  this  same  desire  to  be  alike:  the 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  155 

suffragette  is  accused  of  wanting  to  be  a  man,  the  so 
cialist  is  accused  of  envy  of  the  rich,  and  the  black 
man  is  accused  of  wanting  to  be  white.  That  any  one 
of  these  should  simply  want  to  be  himself  is  to  the 
average  worshiper  of  the  majority  inconceivable,  and 
yet  of  all  worlds,  may  the  good  Lord  deliver  us  from 
a  world  where  everybody  looks  like  his  neighbor  and 
thinks  like  his  neighbor  and  is  like  his  neighbor. 

The  world  has  long  since  awakened  to  a  realization 
of  the  evil  which  a  privileged  few  may  exercise  over 
the  majority  of  a  nation.  So  vividly  has  this  truth 
been  brought  home  to  us  that  we  have  lightly  assumed 
that  a  privileged  and  enfranchised  majority  cannot 
equally  harm  a  nation.  Insane,  wicked,  and  wasteful 
as  the  tyranny  of  the  few  over  the  many  may  be,  it 
is  not  more  dangerous  than  the  tyranny  of  the  many 
over  the  few.  Brutal  physical  revolution  can,  and 
usually  does,  end  the  tyranny  of  the  few.  But  the 
spiritual  losses  from  suppressed  minorities  may  be 
vast  and  fatal  and  yet  all  unknown  and  unrealized 
because  idea  and  dream  and  ability  are  paralyzed  by 
brute  force. 

If,  now,  we  have  a  democracy  with  no  excluded 
groups,  with  all  men  and  women  enfranchised,  what 
is  such  a  democracy  to  do?  How  will  it  function? 
What  will  be  its  field  of  work? 

The  paradox  which  faces  the  civilized  world  today 
is  that  democratic  control  is  everywhere  limited  in 
its  control  of  human  interests.  Mankind  is  engaged 
in  planting,  forestry,  and  mining,  preparing  food  and 
shelter,  making  clothes  and  machines,  transporting 


156  DARKWATER 

goods  and  folk,  disseminating  news,  distributing 
products,  doing  public  and  private  personal  service, 
teaching,  advancing  science,  and  creating  art. 

In  this  intricate  whirl  of  activities,  the  theory  of 
government  has  been  hitherto  to  lay  down  only  very 
general  rules  of  conduct,  marking  the  limits  of  ex 
treme  anti-social  acts,  like  fraud,  theft,  and  murder. 

The  theory  was  that  within  these  bounds  was  Free 
dom — the  Liberty  to  think  and  do  and  move  as  one 
wished.  The  real  realm  of  freedom  was  found  in 
experience  to  be  much  narrower  than  this  in  one 
direction  and  much  broader  in  another.  In  matters 
of  Truth  and  Faith  and  Beauty,  the  Ancient  Law 
was  inexcusably  strait  and  modern  law  unforgivably 
stupid.  It  is  here  that  the  future  and  mighty  fight 
for  Freedom  must  and  will  be  made.  Here  in  the 
heavens  and  on  the  mountaintops,  the  air  of  Free 
dom  is  wide,  almost  limitless,  for  here,  in  the  highest 
stretches,  individual  freedom  harms  no  man,  and, 
therefore,  no  man  has  the  right  to  limit  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  the  valleys  of  the  hard,  un 
yielding  laws  of  matter  and  the  social  necessities  of 
time  production,  and  human  intercourse,  the  limits  on 
our  freedom  are  stern  and  unbending  if  we  would 
exist  and  thrive.  This  does  not  say  that  everything 
here  is  governed  by  incontrovertible  "natural  "  law 
which  needs  no  human  decision  as  to  raw  materials, 
machinery,  prices,  wages,  news-dissemination,  educa 
tion  of  children,  etc.;  but  it  does  mean  that  decisions 
here  must  be  limited  by  brute  facts  and  based  on 
science  and  human  wants. 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  157 

Today  the  scientific  and  ethical  boundaries  of  our 
industrial  activities  are  not  in  the  hands  of  scientists, 
teachers,  and  thinkers;  nor  is  the  intervening  oppor 
tunity  for  decision  left  in  the  control  of  the  public 
whose  welfare  such  decisions  guide.  On  the  contrary, 
the  control  of  industry  is  largely  in  the  hands  of  a 
powerful  few,  who  decide  for  their  own  good  and 
regardless  of  the  good  of  others.  The  making  of  the 
rules  of  Industry,  then,  is  not  in  the  hands  of  All, 
but  in  the  hands  of  the  Few.  The  Few  who  govern 
industry  envisage,  not  the  wants  of  mankind,  but 
their  own  wants.  They  work  quietly,  often  secretly, 
opposing  Law,  on  the  one  hand,  as  interfering  with 
the,  "  freedom  of  industry  ";  opposing,  on  the  other 
hand,  free  discussion  and  open  determination  of  the 
rules  of  work  and  wealth  and  wages,  on  the  ground 
that  harsh  natural  law  brooks  no  interference  by  De 
mocracy. 

These  things  today,  then,  are  not  matters  of  free 
discussion  and  determination.  They  are  strictly  con 
trolled.  Who  controls  them?  Who  makes  these  in 
ner,  but  powerful,  rules?  Few  people  know.  Others 
assert  and  believe  these  rules  are  "natural" — a  part 
of  our  inescapable  physical  environment.  Some  of 
them  doubtless  are;  but  most  of  them  are  just  as 
clearly  the  dictates  of  self-interest  laid  down  by  the 
powerful  private  persons  who  today  control  industry. 
Just  here  it  is  that  modern  men  demand  that  Democ 
racy  supplant. skilfully  concealed,  but  all  too  evident, 
Monarchy. 

In   industry,   monarchy  and   the   aristocracy  rule, 


158  DARKWATER 

and  there  are  those  who,  calling  themselves  democratic, 
believe  that  democracy  can  never  enter  here.  Indus 
try,  they  maintain,  is  a  matter  of  technical  knowl 
edge  and  ability,  and,  therefore,  is  the  eternal  heri 
tage  of  the  few.  They  point  to  the  failure  of  attempts 
at  democratic  control  in  industry,  just  as  we  used  to 
point  to  Spanish-American  governments,  and  they 
expose,  not  simply  the  failures  of  Russian  Soviets, — 
they  fly  to  arms  to  prevent  that  greatest  experiment 
in  industrial  democracy  which  the  world  has  yet  seen. 
These  are  the  ones  who  say:  We  must  control  labor 
or  civilization  will  fail;  we  must  control  white  labor 
in  Europe  and  America;  above  all,  we  must  control 
yellow  labor  in  Asia  and  black  labor  in  Africa  and 
the  South,  else  we  shall  have  no  tea,  or  rubber,  or 
cotton.  And  yet, — and  yet  is  it  so  easy  to  give  up  the 
dream  of  democracy?  Must  industry  rule  men  or 
may  men  rule  even  industry?  And  unless  men  rule 
industry,  can  they  ever  hope  really  to  make  laws  or 
educate  children  or  create  beauty? 

That  the  problem  of  the  democratization  of  indus 
try  is  tremendous,  let  no  man  deny.  We  must  spread 
that  sympathy  and  intelligence  which  tolerates  the 
widest  individual  freedom  despite  the  necessary  pub 
lic  control;  we  must  learn  to  select  for  public  office 
ability  rather  than  mere  affability.  We  must  stand 
ready  to  defer  to  knowledge  and  science  and  judge  by 
result  rather  than  by  method;  and  finally  we  must 
face  the  fact  that  the  final  distribution  of  goods — 
the  question  of  wages  and  income  is  an  ethical  and 
not  a  mere  mechanical  problem  and  calls  for  grave 


OF  THE  RULING  OF  MEN  159 

public  human  judgment  and  not  secrecy  and  closed 
doors.  All  this  means  time  and  development.  It 
comes  not  complete  by  instant  revolution  of  a  day, 
nor  yet  by  the  deferred  evolution  of  a  thousand  years 
— it  conies  daily,  bit  by  bit  and  step  by  step,  as  men  and 
women  learn  and  grow  and  as  children  are  trained  in 
Truth. 

These  steps  are  in  many  cases  clear:  the  careful, 
steady  increase  of  public  democratic  ownership  of  in 
dustry,  beginning  with  the  simplest  type  of  public 
utilities  and  monopolies,  and  extending  gradually  as 
we  learn  the  way;  the  use  of  taxation  to  limit  in 
heritance  and  to  take  the  unearned  increment  for  public 
use  beginning  (but  not  ending)  with  a  "  single  tax  "  on 
monopolized  land  values;  the  training  of  the  public  in 
business  technique  by  co-operation  in  buying  and  sell 
ing,  and  in  industrial  technique  by  the  shop  committee 
and  manufacturing  guild. 

But  beyond  all  this  must  come  the  Spirit — the  Will  to 
Human  Brotherhood  of  all  Colors,  Races,  and  Creeds; 
the  Wanting  of  the  Wants  of  All.  Perhaps  the  finest 
contribution  of  current  Socialism  to  the  world  is  neither 
its  light  nor  its  dogma,  but  the  idea  back  of  its  one 
mighty  word — Comrade ! 


The  Call 

In  the  Land  of  the  Heavy  Laden  came  once  a  dreary 
day.  And  the  King,  who  sat  upon  the  Great  White 
Throne,  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  afar  off  how  the  hills 
around  were  hot  with  hostile  feet  and  the  sound  of  the 
mocking  of  his  enemies  struck  anxiously  on  the  King's 
ears,  for  the  King  loved  his  enemies.  So  the  King  lifted 
up  his  hand  in  the  glittering  silence  and  spake  softly, 
saying:  "Call  the  Servants  of  the  King."  Then  the 
herald  stepped  before  the  armpost  of  the  throne,  and 
cried :  "  1  hus  saith  the  High  and  Mighty  One,  who 
inhabiteth  Eternity,  whose  name  is  Holy, — the  Servants 
of  the  King!" 

Now,  of  the  servants  of  the  king  there  were  a  hundred 
and  forty-four  thousand, — tried  men  and  brave,  brawny 
of  arm  and  quick  of  wit;  aye,  too,  and  women  of  wis 
dom  and  women  marvelous  in  beauty  and  grace.  And 
yet  on  this  drear  day  when  the  King  called,  their  ears 
were  thick  with  the  dust  of  the  enemy,  their  eyes  were 
blinded  with  the  flashing  of  his  spears,  and  they  hid 
their  faces  in  dread  silence  and  moved  not,  even  at  the 
King's  behest.  So  the  herald  called  again.  And  the 
servants  cowered  in  very  shame,  but  none  came  forth. 
But  the  third  blast  of  the  herald  struck  upon  a  woman's 
heart,  afar.  And  the  woman  straightway  left  her  baking 
and  sweeping  and  the  rattle  of  pans;  and  the  woman 
straightway  left  her  chatting  and  gossiping  and  the  sew 
ing  of  garments,  and  the  woman  stood  before  the  King, 
saying :  "  The  servant  of  thy  servants,  O  Lord." 

Then  the  King  smiled, — smiled  wondrously,  so  that 
the  setting  sun  burst  through  the  clouds,  and  the  hearts 
of  the  King's  men  dried  hard  within  them.  And  the 

161 


1 62  DARKWATER 

low-voiced  King  said,  so  low  that  even  they  that  lis 
tened  heard  not  well :  "  Go,  smite  me  mine  enemies,  that 
they  cease  to  do  evil  in  my  sight."  And  the  woman 
quailed  and  trembled.  Three  times  she  lifted  her  eyes 
unto  the  hills  and  saw  the  heathen  whirling  onward  in 
their  rage.  And  seeing,  she  shrank — three  times  she 
shrank  and  crept  to  the  King's  feet. 

"  O  King,"  she  cried,  "  I  am  but  a  woman." 
And  the  King  answered :  "  Go,  then,  Mother  of  Men." 
And  the  woman  said,  "  Nay,  King,  but  I  am  still  a 
maid."    Whereat  the  King  cried:  "  O  maid,  made  Man, 
thou  shalt  be  Bride  of  God." 

And  yet  the  third  time  the  woman  shrank  at  the  thun 
der  in  her  ears,  and  whispered :  "  Dear  God,  I  am  black !  " 
The  King  spake  not,   but  swept  the  veiling  of   his 
face  aside  and  lifted  up  the  light  of  his  countenance 
upon  her  and  lo!  it  was  black. 

So  the  woman  went  forth  on  the  hills  of  God  to  do 
battle  for  the  King,  on  that  drear  day  in  the  land  of  the 
Heavy  Laden,  when  the  heathen  raged  and  imagined  a 
vain  thing. 


VII 
'  THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN 

I  REMEMBER  four  women  of  my  boyhood :  my  mother, 
cousin  Inez,  Emma,  and  Ide  Fuller.  They  represented 
the  problem  of  the  widow,  the  wife,  the  maiden,  and 
the  outcast.  They  were,  in  color,  brown  and  light- 
brown,  yellow  with  brown  freckles,  and  white.  They 
existed  not  for  themselves,  but  for  men;  they  were 
named  after  the  men  to  whom  they  were  related  and 
not  after  the  fashion  of  their  own  souls. 

They  were  not  beings,  they  were  relations  and  these 
relations  were  enfilmed  with  mystery  and  secrecy.  We 
did  not  know  the  truth  or  believe  it  when  we  heard  it. 
Motherhood!  What  was  it?  We  did  not  know  or 
greatly  care.  My  mother  and  I  were  good  chums.  I 
liked  her.  After  she  was  dead  I  loved  her  with  a 
fierce  sense  of  personal  loss. 

Inez  was  a  pretty,  brown  cousin  who  married. 
What  was  marriage?  We  did  not  know,  neither  did 
she,  poor  thing!  It  came  to  mean  for  her  a  litter  of 
children,  poverty,  a  drunken,  cruel  companion,  sick 
ness,  and  death.  Why? 

There  was  no  sweeter  sight  than  Emma, — slim, 
straight,  and  dainty,  darkly  flushed  with  the  passion 
of  youth;  but  her  life  was  a  wild,  awful  struggle  to 


164  DARKWATER 

crush  her  natural,  fierce  joy  of  love.  She  crushed  it 
and  became  a  cold,  calculating  mockery. 

Last  there  was  that  awful  outcast  of  the  town,  the 
white  woman,  Ide  Fuller.  What  she  was,  we  did 
not  know.  She  stood  to  us  as  embodied  filth  and 
wrong, — but  whose  filth,  whose  wrong? 

Grown  up  I  see  the  problem  of  these  women  trans 
fused;  I  hear  all  about  me  the  unanswered  call  of 
youthful  love,  none  the  less  glorious  because  of  its 
clean,  honest,  physical  passion.  Why  unanswered? 
Because  the  youth  are  too  poor  to  marry  or  if  they 
marry,  too  poor  to  have  children.  They  turn  aside, 
then,  in  three  directions:  to  marry  for  support,  to 
what  men  call  shame,  or  to  that  which  is  more  evil 
than  nothing.  It  is  an  unendurable  paradox;  it  must 
be  changed  or  the  bases  of  culture  will  totter  and  fall. 

The  world  wants  healthy  babies  and  intelligent 
workers.  Today  we  refuse  to  allow  the  combination 
and  force  thousands  of  intelligent  workers  to  go  child 
less  at  a  horrible  expenditure  of  moral  force,  or  we 
damn  them  if  they  break  our  idiotic  conventions.  Only 
at  the  sacrifice  of  intelligence  and  the  chance  to  do 
their  best  work  can  the  majority  of  modern  women 
bear  children.  This  is  the  damnation  of  women. 

All  womanhood  is  hampered  today  because  the 
world  on  which  it  is  emerging  is  a  world  that  tries 
to  worship  both  virgins  and  mothers  and  in  the  end 
despises  motherhood  and  despoils  virgins. 

The  future  woman  must  have  a  life  work  and 
economic  independence.  She  must  have  knowledge. 
She  must  have  the  right  of  motherhood  at  her  own 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN          165 

discretion.  The  present  mincing  horror  at  free  wom 
anhood  must  pass  if  we  are  ever  to  be  rid  of  the  besti 
ality  of  free  manhood;  not  by  guarding  the  weak  in 
weakness  do  we  gain  strength,  but  by  making  weak 
ness  free  and  strong. 

The  world  must  choose  the  free  woman  or  the  white 
wraith  of  the  prostitute.  Today  it  wavers  between 
the  prostitute  and  the  nun.  Civilization  must  show 
two  things :  the  glory  and  beauty  of  creating  life  and 
the  need  and  duty  of  power  and  intelligence.  This 
and  this  only  will  make  the  perfect  marriage  of  love 
and  work. 

God  is  Love, 
Love  is  God; 

There  is  no  God  but  Love 
And  Work  is  His  Prophet ! 

All  this  of  woman, — but  what  of  black  women? 

The  world  that  wills  to  worship  womankind  studi 
ously  forgets  its  darker  sisters.  They  seem  in  a  sense 
to  typify  that  veiled  Melancholy: 

"  Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And,  therefore,  to  our  weaker  view 
O'er-laid  with  black." 

Yet  the  world  must  heed  these  daughters  of  sorrow, 
from  the  primal  black  All-Mother  of  men  down 
through  the  ghostly  throng  of  mighty  womanhood, 
who  walked  in  the  mysterious  dawn  of  Asia  and 
Africa;  from  Neith,  the  primal  mother  of  all,  whose 
feet  rest  on  hell,  and  whose  almighty  hands  uphold 


1 66  DARKWATER 

the  heavens;  all  religion,  from  beauty  to  beast,  lies 
on  her  eager  breasts;  her  body  bears  the  stars,  while 
her  shoulders  are  necklaced  by  the  dragon;  from 
black  Neith  down  to 

"  That  starred  Ethiop  queen  who  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea-nymphs," 

through  dusky  Cleopatras,  dark  Candaces,  and  darker, 
fiercer  Zinghas,  to  our  own  day  and  our  own  land, 
— in  gentle  Phillis;  Harriet,  the  crude  Moses;  the 
sybil,  Sojourner  Truth;  and  the  martyr,  Louise  De 
Mortie. 

The  father  and  his  worship  is  Asia;  Europe  is  the 
precocious,  self-centered,  forward-striving  child;  but 
the  land  of  the  mother  is  and  was  Africa.  In  subtle 
and  mysterious  way,  despite  her  curious  history,  her 
slavery,  polygamy,  and  toil,  the  spell  of  the  African 
mother  pervades  her  land.  Isis,  the  mother,  is  still 
titular  goddess,  in  thought  if  not  in  name,  of  the  dark 
continent.  Nor  does  this  all  seem  to  be  solely  a  sur 
vival  of  the  historic  matriarchate  through  which  all 
nations  pass, — it  appears  to  be  more  than  this, — as  if 
the  great  black  race  in  passing  up  the  steps  of  human 
culture  gave  the  world,  not  only  the  Iron  Age,  the 
cultivation  of  the  soil,  and  the  domestication  of  ani 
mals,  but  also,  in  peculiar  emphasis,  the  mother-idea. 

"  No  mother  can  love  more  tenderly  and  none  is 
more  tenderly  loved  than  the  Negro  mother,"  writes 
Schneider.  Robin  tells  of  the  slave  who  bought  his 
mother's  freedom  instead  of  his  own.  Mungo  Park 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN     >     167 

writes:  "Everywhere  in  Africa,  I  have  noticed  that 
no  greater  affront  can  be  offered  a  Negro  than  insult 
ing  his  mother.  *  Strike  me/  cries  a  Mandingo  to 
his  enemy,  '  but  revile  not  my  mother ! '  And  the 
Krus  and  Fantis  say  the  same.  The  peoples  on  the 
Zambezi  and  the  great  lakes  cry  in  sudden  fear  or 
joy :  "  O,  my  mother ! "  And  the  Herero  swears 
(endless  oath)  "By  my  mother's  tears  I"  "As  the 
mist  in  the  swamps,"  cries  the  Angola  Negro,  "  so 
lives  the  love  of  father  and  mother." 

A  student  of  the  present  Gold  Coast  life  describes 
the  work  of  the  village  headman,  and  adds :  "  It  is 
a  difficult  task  that  he  is  set  to,  but  in  this  matter  he 
has  all-powerful  helpers  in  the  female  members  of 
the  family,  who  will  be  either  the  aunts  or  the  sisters 
or  the  cousins  or  the  nieces  of  the  headman,  and  as 
their  interests  are  identical  with  his  in  every  particular, 
the  good  women  spontaneously  train  up  their  children 
to  implicit  obedience  to  the  headman,  whose  rule  in 
the  family  thus  becomes  a  simple  and  an  easy  matter. 
'  The  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  rules  the  world.' 
What  a  power  for  good  in  the  native  state  system 
would  the  mothers  of  the  Gold  Coast  and  Ashanti 
become  by  judicious  training  upon  native  lines ! " 

Schweinfurth  declares  of  one  tribe :  "  A  bond  be 
tween  mother  and  child  which  lasts  for  life  is  the 
measure  of  affection  shown  among  the  Dyoor"  and 
Ratzel  adds: 

"  Agreeable  to  the  natural  relation  the  mother 
stands  first  among  the  chief  influences  affecting  the 
children.  From  the  Zulus  to  the  Waganda,  we  find 


1 68  DARKWATER 

the  mother  the  most  influential  counsellor  at  the  court 
of  ferocious  sovereigns,  like  Chaka  or  Mtesa;  some 
times  sisters  take  her  place.  Thus  even  with  chiefs 
who  possess  wives  by  hundreds  the  bonds  of  blood 
are  the  strongest  and  that  the  woman,  though  often 
heavily  burdened,  is  in  herself  held  in  no  small  esteem 
among  the  Negroes  is  clear  from  the  numerous  Negro 
queens,  from  the  medicine  women,  from  the  partici 
pation  in  public  meetings  permitted  to  women  by 
many  Negro  peoples." 

As  I  remember  through  memories  of  others,  back 
ward  among  my  own  family,  it  is  the  mother  I  ever 
recall, — the  little,  far-off  mother  of  my  grandmothers, 
who  sobbed  her  life  away  in  song,  longing  for  her  lost 
palm-trees  and  scented  waters;  the  tall  and  bronzen 
grandmother,  with  beaked  nose  and  shrewish  eyes, 
who  loved  and  scolded  her  black  and  laughing  hus 
band  as  he  smoked  lazily  in  his  high  oak  chair ;  above 
all,  my  own  mother,  with  all  her  soft  brownness, — 
the  brown  velvet  of  her  skin,  the  sorrowful  black- 
brown  of  her  eyes,  and  the  tiny  brown-capped  waves 
of  her  midnight  hair  as  it  lay  new  parted  on  her  fore 
head.  All  the  way  back  in  these  dim  distances  it  is 
mothers  and  mothers  of  mothers  who  seem  to  count, 
while  fathers  are  shadowy  memories. 

Upon  this  African  mother-idea,  the  westward  slave 
trade  and  American  slavery  struck  like  doom.  In  the 
cruel  exigencies  of  the  traffic  in  men  and  in  the  sud 
den,  unprepared  emancipation  the  great  pendulum  of 
social  equilibrium  swung  from  a  time,  in  1800, — 
when  America  had  but  eight  or  less  black  women  to 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN          169 

every  ten  black  men, — all  too  swiftly  to  a  day,  in  1870, 
— when  there  were  nearly  eleven  women  to  ten  men 
in  our  Negro  population.  This  was  but  the  outward 
numerical  fact  of  social  dislocation;  within  lay  polyg 
amy,  polyandry,  concubinage,  and  moral  degradation, 
They  fought  against  all  this  desperately,  did  these 
black  slaves  in  the  West  Indies,  especially  among  the 
half-free  artisans;  they  set  up  their  ancient  house 
hold  gods,  and  when  Toussaint  and  Cristophe  founded 
their  kingdom  in  Haiti,  it  was  based  on  old  African 
tribal  ties  and  beneath  it  was  the  mother-idea. 

The  crushing  weight  of  slavery  fell  on  black  women. 
Under  it  there  was  no  legal  marriage,  no  legal  family, 
no  legal  control  over  children.  To  be  sure,  custom 
and  religion  replaced  here  and  there  what  the  law 
denied,  yet  one  has  but  to  read  advertisements  like 
the  following  to  see  the  hell  beneath  the  system: 

"  One  hundred  dollars  reward  will  be  given  for  my 
two  fellows,  Abram  and  Frank.  Abram  has  a  wife  at 
Colonel  Stewart's,  in  Liberty  County,  and  a  mother  at 
Thunderbolt,  and  a  sister  in  Savannah. 

"  WILLIAM  ROBERTS." 

"  Fifty  dollars  reward — Ran  away  from  the  sub 
scriber  a  Negro  girl  named  Maria.  She  is  of  a  copper 
color,  between  thirteen  and  fourteen  years  of  age — bare 
headed  and  barefooted.  She  is  small  for  her  age — very 
sprightly  and  very  likely.  She  stated  she  was  going  to 
see  her  mother  at  Maysville. 

"  SANFORD  THOMSON." 

"  Fifty  dollars  reward — Ran  away  from  the  subscriber 
his  Negro  man  Pauladore,  commonly  called  Paul.  I  un- 


170  DARKWATER 

derstand  General  R.  Y.  Hayne  has  purchased  his  wife 
and  children  from  H.  L.  Pinckney,  Esq.,  and  has  them 
now  on  his  plantation  at  Goose  Creek,  where,  no  doubt, 
the  fellow  is  frequently  lurking. 

"  T.  DAVIS." 

The  Presbyterian  synod  of  Kentucky  said  to  the 
churches  under  its  care  in  1835  :  "  Brothers  and  sisters, 
parents  and  children,  husbands  and  wives,  are  torn 
asunder  and  permitted  to  see  each  other  no  more. 
These  acts  are  daily  occurring  in  the  midst  of  us.  The 
shrieks  and  agony  often  witnessed  on  such  occasions 
proclaim,  with  a  trumpet  tongue,  the  iniquity  of  our 
system.  There  is  not  a  neighborhood  where  these 
heartrending  scenes  are  not  displayed.  There  is  not 
a  village  or  road  that  does  not  behold  the  sad  proces 
sion  of  manacled  outcasts  whose  mournful  counte 
nances  tell  that  they  are  exiled  by  force  from  all  that 
their  hearts  hold  dear." 

A  sister  of  a  president  of  the  United  States  de 
clared:  "We  Southern  ladies  are 'complimented  with 
the  names  of  wives,  but  we  are  only  the  mistresses  of 
seraglios." 

Out  of  this,  what  sort  of  black  women  could  be 
born  into  the  world  of  today?  There  are  those  who 
hasten  to  answer  this  query  in  scathing  terms  and  who 
say  lightly  and  repeatedly  that  out  of  black  slavery 
came  nothing  decent  in  womanhood;  that  adultery  and 
uucleanness  were  their  heritage  and  are  their  continued 
portion. 

Fortunately  so  exaggerated  a  charge  is  humanly 
impossible  of  truth.  The  half-million  women  of  Ne- 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN          171 

gro  descent  who  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  I9th 
century  had  become  the  mothers  of  two  and  one- 
fourth  million  daughters  at  the  time  of  the  Civil 
War  and  five  million  granddaughters  in  1910.  Can 
all  these  women  be  vile  and  the  hunted  race  con 
tinue  to  grow  in  wealth  and  character?  Impossible. 
Yet  to  save  from  the  past  the  shreds  and  vestiges  of 
self-respect  has  been  a  terrible  task.  I  most  sincerely 
doubt  if  any  other  race  of  women  could  have  brought 
its  fineness  up  through  so  devilish  a  fire. 

Alexander  Crummell  once  said  of  his  sister  in  the 
blood :  "  In  her  girlhood  all  the  delicate  tenderness 
of  her  sex  has  been  rudely  outraged.  In  the  field,  in 
the  rude  cabin,  in  the  press-room,  in  the  factory  she 
was  thrown  into  the  companionship  of  coarse  and 
ignorant  men.  No  chance  was  given  her  for  delicate 
reserve  or  tender  modesty.  From  her  childhood  she 
was  the  doomed  victim  of  the  grossest  passion.  All 
the  virtues  of  her  sex  were  utterly  ignored.  If  the 
instinct  of  chastity  asserted  itself,  then  she  had  to 
fight  like  a  tiger  for  the  ownership  and  possession 
of  her  own  person  and  ofttimes  had  to  suffer  pain 
and  lacerations  for  her  virtuous  self-assertion.  When 
she  reached  maturity,  all  the  tender  instincts  of  her 
womanhood  were  ruthlessly  violated.  At  the  age  of 
marriage, — always  prematurely  anticipated  under  slav 
ery — she  was  mated  as  the  stock  of  the  plantation  were 
mated,  not  to  be  the  companion  of  a  loved  and  chosen 
husband,  but  to  be  the  breeder  of  human  cattle  for 
the  field  or  the  auction  block." 

Down  in  such  mire  has  the  black  motherhood  of 


172  DARKWATER 

this  race  struggled, — starving  its  own  wailing  off 
spring  to  nurse  to  the  world  their  swaggering  masters; 
welding  for  its  children  chains  which  affronted  even 
the  moral  sense  of  an  unmoral  world.  Many  a  man 
and  woman  in  the  South  have  lived  in  wedlock  as  holy 
as  Adam  and  Eve  and  brought  forth  their  brown  and 
golden  children,  but  because  the  darker  woman  was 
helpless,  her  chivalrous  and  whiter  mate  could  cast 
her  off  at  his  pleasure  and  publicly  sneer  at  the  body 
he  had  privately  blasphemed. 

I  shall  forgive  the  white  South  much  in  its  final 
judgment  day:  I  shall  forgive  its  slavery,  for  slavery 
is  a  world-old  habit;  I  shall  forgive  its  fighting  for  a 
well-lost  cause,  and  for  remembering  that  struggle  with 
tender  tears;  I  shall  forgive  its  so-called  "  pride  of 
race,"  the  passion  of  its  hot  blood,  and  even  its  dear, 
old,  laughable  strutting  and  posing;  but  one  thing  I 
shall  never  forgive,  neither  in  this  world  nor  the 
world  to  come:  its  wanton  and  continued  and  persist 
ent  insulting  of  the  black  womanhood  which  it  sought 
and  seeks  to  prostitute  to  its  lust.  I  cannot  forget 
that  it  is  such  Southern  gentlemen  into  whose  hands 
smug  Northern  hypocrites  of  today  are  seeking  to  place 
our  women's  eternal  destiny, — men  who  insist  upon 
withholding  from  my  mother  and  wife  and  daughter 
those  signs  and  appellations  of  courtesy  and  respect 
which  elsewhere  he  withholds  only  from  bawds  and 
courtesans. 

The  result  of  this  history  of  insult  and  degradation 
has  been  both  fearful  and  glorious.  It  has  birthed 
the  haunting  prostitute,  the  brawler,  and  the  beast  of 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN  173 

burden;  but  it  has  also  given  the  world  an  efficient 
womanhood,  whose  strength,  lies  in  its  freedom  and 
whose  chastity  was  won  in  the  teeth  of  temptation  and 
not  in  prison  and  swaddling  clothes. 

To  no  modern  race  does  its  women  mean  so  much 
as  to  the  Negro  nor  come  so  near  to  the  fulfilment 
of  its  meaning.  As  one  of  our  women  writes:  "  Only 
the  black  woman  can  say  '  when  and  where  I  enter,  in 
the  quiet,  undisputed  dignity  of  my  womanhood,  with 
out  violence  and  without  suing  or  special  patronage, 
then  and  there  the  whole  Negro  race  enters  with  me.'  ' 

They  came  first,  in  earlier  days,  like  foam  flashing 
on  dark,  silent  waters, — bits  of  stern,  dark  woman 
hood  here  and  there  tossed  almost  carelessly  aloft  to 
the  world's  notice.  First  and  naturally  they  assumed 
the  panoply  of  the  ancient  African  mother  of  men, 
strong  and  black,  whose  very  nature  beat  back  the 
wilderness  of  oppression  and  contempt.  Such  a  one 
was  that  cousin  of  my  grandmother,  whom  western 
Massachusetts  remembers  as  "  Mum  Bett."  Scarred 
for  life  by  a  blow  received  in  defense  of  a  sister,  she 
ran  away  to  Great  Harrington  and  was  the  first  slave, 
or  one  of  the  first,  to  be  declared  free  under  the  Bill 
of  Rights  of  1780.  The  son  of  the  judge  who  freed 
her,  writes: 

"  Even  in  her  humble  station,  she  had,  when  occasion 
required  it,  an  air  of  command  which  conferred  a  degree 
of  dignity  and  gave  her  an  ascendancy  over  those  of  her 
rank,  which  is  very  unusual  in  persons  of  any  rank  or 
color.  Her  determined  and  resolute  character,  which 
enabled  her  to  limit  the  ravages  of  Shay's  mob,  was 


174  DARKWATER 

manifested  in  her  conduct  and  deportment  during  her 
whole  life.  She  claimed  no  distinction,  but  it  was  yielded 
to  her  from  her  superior  experience,  energy,  skill,  and 
sagacity.  Having  known  this  woman  as  familiarly  as 
I  knew  either  of  my  parents,  I  cannot  believe  in  the 
moral  or  physical  inferiority  of  the  race  to  which  she 
belonged.  The  degradation  of  the  African  must  have 
been  otherwise  caused  than  by  natural  inferiority." 

It  was  such  strong  women  that  laid  the  founda 
tions  of  the  great  Negro  church  of  today,  with  its 
five  million  members  and  ninety  millions  of  dol 
lars  in  property.  One  of  the  early  mothers  of 
the  church,  Mary  Still,  writes  thus  quaintly,  in  the 
forties : 

"  When  we  were  as  castouts  and  spurned  from  the 
large  churches,  driven  from  our  knees,  pointed  at  by  the 
proud,  neglected  by  the  careless,  without  a  place  of  wor 
ship,  Allen,  faithful  to  the  heavenly  calling,  came  for 
ward  and  laid  the  foundation  of  this  connection.  The 
women,  like  the  women  at  the  sepulcher,  were  early  to 
aid  in  laying  the  foundation  of  the  temple  and  in  helping 
to  carry  up  the  noble  structure  and  in  the  name  of  their 
God  set  up  their  banner;  most  of  our  aged  mothers  are 
gone  from  this  to  a  better  state  of  things.  Yet  some 
linger  still  on  their  staves,  watching  with  intense  interest 
the  ark  as  it  moves  over  the  tempestuous  waves  of  oppo 
sition  and  ignorance.  .  .  . 

"  But  the  labors  of  these  women  stopped  not  here, 
for  they  knew  well  that  they  were  subject  to  affliction 
and  death.  For  the  purpose  of  mutual  aid,  they  banded 
themselves  together  in  society  capacity,  that  they  might 
be  better  able  to  administer  to  each  others'  sufferings 
and  to  soften  their  own  pillows.  So  we  find  the  females 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN          175 

in  the  early  history  of  the  church  abounding  in  good 
works  and  in  acts  of  true  benevolence." 

From  such  spiritual  ancestry  came  two  striking 
figures  of  war-time, — Harriet  Tubman  and  Sojourner 
Truth. 

For  eight  or  ten  years  previous  to  the  breaking  out 
of  the  Civil  War,  Harriet  Tubman  was  a  constant  at 
tendant  at  anti-slavery  conventions,  lectures,  and  other 
meetings;  she  was  a  black  woman  of  medium  size, 
smiling  countenance,  with  her  upper  front  teeth  gone, 
attired  in  coarse  but  neat  clothes,  and  carrying  always 
an  old-fashioned  reticule  at  her  side.  Usually  as 
soon  as  she  sat  down  she  would  drop  off  in  sound 
sleep. 

She  was  born  a  slave  in  Maryland,  in  1820,  bore 
the  marks  of  the  lash  on  her  flesh;  and  had  been  made 
partially  deaf,  and  perhaps  to  some  degree  mentally 
unbalanced  by  a  blow  on  the  head  in  childhood.  Yet 
she  was  one  of  the  most  important  agents  of  the 
Underground  Railroad  and  a  leader  of  fugitive  slaves. 
She  ran  away  in  1849  an<^  went  to  Boston  in  1854, 
where  she  was  welcomed  into  the  homes  of  the  lead 
ing  abolitionists  and  where  every  one  listened  with 
tense  interest  to  her  strange  stories.  She  was  abso 
lutely  illiterate,  with  no  knowledge  of  geography, 
and  yet  year  after  year  she  penetrated  the  slave  states 
and  personally  led  North  over  three  hundred  fugitives 
without  losing  a  single  one.  A  standing  reward  of 
$10,000  was  offered  for  her,  but  as  she  said :  "  The 
whites  cannot  catch  us,  for  I  was  born  with  the  charm, 
and  the  Lord  has  given  me  the  power."  She  was  one 


1 76  DARKWATER 

of  John  Brown's  closest  advisers  and  only  severe  sick 
ness  prevented  her  presence  at  Harper's  Ferry. 

When  the  war  cloud  broke,  she  hastened  to  the 
front,  flitting  down  along  her  own  mysterious  paths, 
haunting  the  armies  in  the  field,  and  serving  as  guide 
and  nurse  and  spy.  She  followed  Sherman  in  his 
great  march  to  the  sea  and  was  with  Grant  at  Peters 
burg,  and  always  in  the  camps  the  Union  officers  si 
lently  saluted  her. 

The  other  woman  belonged  to  a  different  type, — 
a  tall,  gaunt,  black,  unsmiling  sybil,  weighted  with 
the  woe  of  the  world.  She  ran  away  from  slavery  and 
giving  up  her  own  name  took  the  name  of  Sojourner 
Truth.  She  says :  "  I  can  remember  when  I  was  a 
little,  young  girl,  how  my  old  mammy  would  sit  out 
of  doors  in  the  evenings  and  look  up  at  the  stars  and 
groan,  and  I  would  say,  '  Mammy,  what  makes  you 
groan  so  ? '  And  she  would  say,  '  I  am  groaning  to 
think  of  my  poor  children;  they  do  not  know  where 
I  be  and  I  don't  know  where  they  be.  I  look  up  at  the 
stars  and  they  look  up  at  the  stars ! ' 

Her  determination  was  founded  on  unwavering  faith 
in  ultimate  good.  Wendell  Phillips  says  that  he  was 
once  in  Faneuil  Hall,  when  Frederick  Douglass  was 
one  of  the  chief  speakers.  Douglass  had  been  describ 
ing  the  wrongs  of  the  Negro  race  and  as  he  proceeded 
he  grew  more  and  more  excited  and  finally  ended  by 
saying  that  they  had  no  hope  of  justice  from  the 
whites,  no  possible  hope  except  in  their  own  right 
arms.  It  must  come  to  blood!  They  must  fight  for 
themselves.  Sojourner  Truth  was  sitting,  tall  and 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN          177 

dark,  on  the  very  front  seat  facing  the  platform,  and 
in  the  hush  of  feeling  when  Douglass  sat  down  she 
spoke  out  in  her  deep,  peculiar  voice,  heard  all  over  the 
hall: 

"Frederick,  is  God  dead?" 

Such  strong,  primitive  types  of  Negro  womanhood 
in  America  seem  to  some  to  exhaust  its  capabilities. 
They  know  less  of  a  not  more  worthy,  but  a  finer 
type  of  black  woman  wherein  trembles  all  of  that 
delicate  sense  of  beauty  and  striving  for  self-realiza 
tion,  which  is  as  characteristic  of  the  Negro  soul 
as  is  its  quaint  strength  and  sweet  laughter.  George 
Washington  wrote  in  grave  and  gentle  courtesy  to 
a  Negro  woman,  in  1/76,  that  he  would  "  be  happy 
to  see  "  at  his  headquarters  at  any  time,  a  person  "  to 
whom  nature  has  been  so  liberal  and  beneficial  in  her 
dispensations."  This  child,  Phillis  Wheatley,  sang 
her  trite  and  halting  strain  to  a  world  that  wondered 
and  could  not  produce  her  like.  Measured  today  her 
muse  was  slight  and  yet,  feeling  her  striving  spirit, 
we  call  to  her  still  in  her  own  words : 

"  Through  thickest  glooms  look  back,  immortal  shade." 

Perhaps  even  higher  than  strength  and  art  loom 
human  sympathy  and  sacrifice  as  characteristic  of 
Negro  womanhood.  Long  years  ago,  before  the  Dec 
laration  of  Independence,  Kate  Ferguson  was  born 
in  New  York.  Freed,  widowed,  and  bereaved  of  her 
children  before  she  was  twenty,  she  took  the  children 
of  the  streets  of  New  York,  white  and  black,  to  her 
empty  arms,  taught  them,  found  them  homes,  and 


178  DARKWATER 

with  Dr.  Mason  of  Murray  Street  Church  established 
the  first  modern  Sunday  School  in  Manhattan. 

Sixty  years  later  came  Mary  Shadd  up  out  of  Dela 
ware.  She  was  tall  and  slim,  of  that  ravishing  dream- 
born  beauty, — that  twilight  of  the  races  which  we  call 
mulatto.  Well-educated,  vivacious,  with  determina 
tion  shining  from  her  sharp  eyes,  she  threw  herself 
singlehanded  into  the  great  Canadian  pilgrimage  when 
thousands  of  hunted  black  men  hurried  northward  and 
crept  beneath  the  protection  of  the  lion's  paw.  She 
became  teacher,  editor,  and  lecturer;  tramping  afoot 
through  winter  snows,  pushing  without  blot  or  blem 
ish  through  crowd  and  turmoil  to  conventions  and 
meetings,  and  finally  becoming  recruiting  agent  for 
the  United  States  government  in  gathering  Negro  sol 
diers  in  the  West. 

After  the  war  the  sacrifice  of  Negro  women  for 
freedom  and  uplift  is  one  of  the  finest  chapters  in 
their  history.  Let  one  life  typify  all :  Louise  De  Mor- 
tie,  a  free-born  Virginia  girl,  had  lived  most  of  her 
life  in  Boston.  Her  high  forehead,  swelling  lips,  and 
dark  eyes  marked  her  for  a  woman  of  feeling  and 
intellect.  She  began  a  successful  career  as  a  public 
reader.  Then  came  the  War  and  the  Call.  She 
went  to  the  orphaned  colored  children  of  New  Or 
leans, — out  of  freedom  into  insult  and  oppression  and 
into  the  teeth  of  the  yellow  fever.  She  toiled  and 
dreamed.  In  1887  she  had  raised  money  and  built 
an  orphan  home  and  that  same  year,  in  the  thirty- 
fourth  of  her  young  life,  she  died,  saying  simply: 
"  I  belong  to  God." 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN  179 

As  I  look  about  me  today  in  this  veiled  world  of 
mine,  despite  the  noisier  and  more  spectacular  advance 
of  my  brothers,  I  instinctively  feel  and  know  that  it 
is  the  five  million  women  of  my  race  who  really  count. 
Black  women  (and  women  whose  grandmothers  were 
black)  are  today  furnishing  our  teachers;  they  are 
the  main  pillars  of  those  social  settlements  which  we 
call  churches;  and  they  have  with  small  doubt  raised 
three-fourths  of  our  church  property.  If  we  have 
today,  as  seems  likely,  over  a  billion  dollars  of  accu-' 
mulated  goods,  who  shall  say  how  much  of  it  has  been 
wrung  from  the  hearts  of  servant  girls  and  washer 
women  and  women  toilers  in  the  fields?  As  makers 
of  two  million  homes  these  women  are  today  seeking 
in  marvelous  ways  to  show  forth  our  strength  and 
beauty  and  our  conception  of  the  truth. 

In  the  United  States  in  1910  there  were  4,931,882 
women  of  Negro  descent;  over  twelve  hundred  thou 
sand  of  these  were  children,  another  million  were 
girls  and  young  women  under  twenty,  and  two  and  a 
half-million  were  adults.  As  a  mass  these  women 
were  unlettered, — a  fourth  of  those  from  fifteen  to 
twenty-five  years  of  age  were  unable  to  write.  These 
women  are  passing  through,  not  only  a  moral,  but  an 
economic  revolution.  Their  grandmothers  married 
at  twelve  and  fifteen,  but  twenty-seven  per  cent  of 
these  women  today  who  have  passed  fifteen  are  still 
single. 

Yet  these  black  women  toil  and  toil  hard.  There 
were  in  1910  two  and  a  half  million  Negro  homes  in 
the  United  States.  Out  of  these  homes  walked  daily 


i8o  DARKWATER 

to  work  two  million  women  and  girls  over  ten  years  of 
age, — over  half  of  the  colored  female  population  as 
against  a  fifth  in  the  case  of  white  women.  These, 
then,  are  a  group  of  workers,  fighting  for  their  daily 
bread  like  men;  independent  and  approaching  eco 
nomic  freedom !  They  furnished  a  million  farm  labor 
ers,  80,000  farmers,  22,000  teachers,  600,000  servants 
and  washerwomen,  and  50,000  in  trades  and  merchan 
dizing. 

The  family  group,  however,  which  is  the  ideal  of 
the  culture  with  which  these  folk  have  been  born,  is 
not  based  on  the  idea  of  an  economically  independent 
working  mother.  Rather  its  ideal  harks  back  to  the 
sheltered  harem  with  the  mother  emerging  at  first  as 
nurse  and  homemaker,  while  the  man  remains  the  sole 
breadwinner.  What  is  the  inevitable  result  of  the 
clash  of  such  ideals  and  such  facts  in  the  colored 
group?  Broken  families. 

Among  native  white  women  one  in  ten  is  separated 
from  her  husband  by  death,  divorce,  or  desertion. 
Among  Negroes  the  ratio  is  one  in  seven.  Is  the 
cause  racial?  No,  it  is  economic,  because  there  is 
the  same  high  ratio  among  the  white  foreign-born. 
The  breaking  up  of  the  present  family  is  the  result 
of  modern  working  and  sex  conditions  and  it  hits 
the  laborers  with  terrible  force.  The  Negroes  are 
put  in  a  peculiarly  difficult  position,  because  the  wage 
of  the  male  breadwinner  is  below  the  standard,  while 
the  openings  for  colored  women  in  certain  lines  of 
domestic  work,  and  now  in  industries,  are  many.  Thus 
while  toil  holds  the  father  and  brother  in  country  and 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN          181 

town  at  low  wages,  the  sisters  and  mothers  are  called 
to  the  city.  As  a  result  the  Negro  women  outnumber 
the  men  nine  or  ten  to  eight  in  many  cities,  making 
what  Charlotte  Oilman  bluntly  calls  "cheap  women." 
What  shall  we  say  to  this  new  economic  equality  in 
a  great  laboring  class  ?  Some  people  within  and  with 
out  the  race  deplore  it.  "  Back  to  the  homes  with  the 
women,"  they  cry,  "  and  higher  wage  for  the  men." 
But  how  impossible  this  is  has  been  shown  by  war 
conditions.  Cessation  of  foreign  migration  has  raised 
Negro  men's  wages,  to  be  sure — but  it  has  not  only 
raised  Negro  women's  wages,  it  has  opened  to  them 
a  score  of  new  avenues  of  earning  a  living.  Indeed, 
here,  in  microcosm  and  with  differences  emphasizing 
sex  equality,  is  the  industrial  history  of  labor  in  the 
1 9th  and  2Oth  centuries.  We  cannot  abolish  the  new 
economic  freedom  of  women.  We  cannot  imprison 
women  again  in  a  home  or  require  them  all  on  pain 
of  death  to  be  nurses  and  housekeepers. 

What  is  today  the  message  of  these  black  women 
to  America  and  to  the  world?  The  uplift  of  women 
is,  next  to  the  problem  of  the  color  line  and  the  peace 
movement,  our  greatest  modern  cause.  When,  now, 
two  of  these  movements — woman  and  color — combine 
in  one,  the  combination  has  deep  meaning. 

In  other  years  women's  way  was  clear :  to  be  beauti 
ful,  to  be  petted,  to  bear  children.  Such  has  been 
their  theoretic  destiny  and  if  perchance  they  have 
been  ugly,  hurt,  and  barren,  that  has  been  forgotten 
with  studied  silence.  In  partial  compensation  for  this 
narrowed  destiny  the  white  world  has  lavished  its 


182  DARKWATER 

politeness  on  its  womankind, — its  chivalry  and  bows, 
its  uncoverings  and  courtesies — all  the  accumulated 
homage  disused  for  courts  and  kings  and  craving 
exercise.  The  revolt  of  white  women  against  this 
preordained  destiny  has  in  these  latter  days  reached 
splendid  proportions,  but  it  is  the  revolt  of  an  aris 
tocracy  of  brains  and  ability, — the  middle  class  and 
rank  and  file  still  plod  on  in  the  appointed  path,  paid 
by  the  homage,  the  almost  mocking  homage,  of  men. 
From  black  women  of  America,  however,  (and 
from  some  others,  too,  but  chiefly  from  black  women 
and  their  daughters'  daughters)  this  gauze  has  been 
withheld  and  without  semblance  of  such  apology  they 
have  been  frankly  trodden  under  the  feet  of  men. 
They  are  and  have  been  objected  to,  apparently  for 
reasons  peculiarly  exasperating  to  reasoning  human 
beings.  When  in  this  world  a  man  comes  forward 
with  a  thought,  a  deed,  a  vision,  we  ask  not,  how  does 
he  look, — but  what  is  his  message?  It  is  of  but  pass 
ing  interest  whether  or  not  the  messenger  is  beautiful 
or  ugly, — the  message  is  the  thing.  This,  which  is 
axiomatic  among  men,  has  been  in  past  ages  but  par 
tially  true  if  the  messenger  was  a  woman.  The  world 
still  wants  to  ask  that  a  woman  primarily  be  pretty  and 
if  she  is  not,  the  mob  pouts  and  asks  querulously, 
"What  else  are  women  for?"  Beauty  "is  its  own 
excuse  for  being,"  but  there  are  other  excuses,  as  most 
men  know,  and  when  the  white  world  objects  to  black 
women  because  it  does  not  consider  them  beautiful, 
the  black  world  of  right  asks  two  questions:  "  What 
is  beauty?  "  and,  "  Suppose  you  think  them  ugly,  what 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN          183 

then?  If  ugliness  and  unconventionality  and  eccen 
tricity  of  face  and  deed  do  not  hinder  men  from  do 
ing  the  world's  work  and  reaping  the  world's  reward, 
why  should  it  hinder  women  ?  " 

Other  things  being  equal,  all  of  us,  black  and  white, 
would  prefer  to  be  beautiful  in  face  and  form  and 
suitably  clothed;  but  most  of  us  are  not  so,  and  one 
of  the  mightiest  revolts  of  the  century  is  against  the 
devilish  decree  that  no  woman  is  a  woman  who  is 
not  by  present  standards  a  beautiful  woman.  This 
decree  the  black  women  of  America  have  in  large 
measure  escaped  from  the  first.  Not  being  expected 
to  be  merely  ornamental,  they  have  girded  themselves 
for  work,  instead  of  adorning  their  bodies  only  for 
play.  Their  sturdier  minds  have  concluded  that  if 
a  woman  be  clean,  healthy,  and  educated,  she  is  as 
pleasing  as  God  wills  and  far  more  useful  than  most 
of  her  sisters.  If  in  addition  to  this  she  is  pink  and 
white  and  straight-haired,  and  some  of  her  fellow-men 
prefer  this,  well  and  good;  but  if  she  is  black  or 
brown  and  crowned  in  curled  mists  (and  this  to  us  is 
the  most  beautiful  thing  on  earth),  this  is  surely  the 
flimsiest  excuse  for  spiritual  incarceration  or  banish 
ment. 

The  very  attempt  to  do  this  in  the  case  of  Negro 
Americans  has  strangely  over-reached  itself.  By  so 
much  as  the  defective  eyesight  of  the  white  world 
rejects  black  women  as  beauties,  by  so  much  the  more 
it  needs  them  as  human  beings, — an  enviable  alterna 
tive,  as  many  a  white  woman  knows.  Consequently, 
for  black  women  alone,  as  a  group,  "  handsome  is  that 


184  DARKWATER 

handsome  does"  and  they  are  asked  to  be  no  more 
beautiful  than  God  made  them,  but  they  are  asked  to 
be  efficient,  to  be  strong,  fertile,  muscled,  and  able 
to  work.  If  they  marry,  they  must  as  independent 
workers  be  able  to  help  support  their  children,  for 
their  men  are  paid  on  a  scale  which  makes  sole  sup 
port  of  the  family  often  impossible. 

On  the  whole,  colored  working  women  are  paid  as 
well  as  white  working  women  for  similar  work,  save 
in  some  higher  grades,  while  colored  men  get  from 
one-fourth  to  three-fourths  less  than  white  men.  The 
result  is  curious  and  three- fold:  the  economic  inde 
pendence  of  black  women  is  increased,  the  breaking 
up  of  Negro  families  must  be  more  frequent,  and  the 
number  of  illegitimate  children  is  decreased  more 
slowly  among  them  than  other  evidences  of  culture  are 
increased,  just  as  was  once  true  in  Scotland  and 
Bavaria. 

What  does  this  mean?  It  forecasts  a  mighty  di 
lemma  which  the  whole  world  of  civilization,  despite 
its  will,  must  one  time  frankly  face :  the  unhusbanded 
mother  or  the  childless  wife.  God  send  us  a  world 
with  woman's  freedom  and  married  motherhood  in 
extricably  wed,  but  until  He  sends  it,  I  see  more  of 
future  promise  in  the  betrayed  girl-mothers  of  the 
black  belt  than  in  the  childless  wives  of  the  white 
North,  and  I  have  more  respect  for  the  colored  serv 
ant  who  yields  to  her  frank  longing  for  motherhood 
than  for  her  white  sister  who  offers  up  children  for 
clothes.  Out  of  a  sex  freedom  that  today  makes  us 
shudder  will  come  in  time  a  day  when  we  will  no 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  WOMEN          185 

longer  pay  men  for  work  they  do  not  do,  for  the 
sake  of  their  harem;  we  will  pay  women  what  they 
earn  and  insist  on  their  working  and  earning  it;  we 
will  allow  those  persons  to  vote  who  know  enough  to 
vote,  whether  they  be  black  or  female,  white  or  male ; 
and  we  will  ward  race  suicide,  not  by  further  burden 
ing  the  over-burdened,  but  by  honoring  motherhood, 
even  when  the  sneaking  father  shirks  his  duty. 

"  Wait  till  the  lady  passes/'  said  a  Nashville  white 
boy. 

"  She's  no  lady;  she's  a  nigger,"  answered  another. 

So  some  few  women  are  born  free,  and  some  amid 
insult  and  scarlet  letters  achieve  freedom;  but  our 
women  in  black  had  freedom  thrust  contemptuously 
upon  them.  With  that  freedom  they  are  buying  an 
untrammeled  independence  and  dear  as  is  the  price  they 
pay  for  it,  it  will  in  the  end  be  worth  every  taunt  and 
groan.  Today  the  dreams  of  the  mothers  are  coming 
true.  We  have  still  our  poverty  and  degradation,  our 
lewdness  and  our  cruel  toil;  but  we  have,  too,  a  vast 
group  of  women  of  Negro  blood  who  for  strength  of 
character,  cleanness  of  soul,  and  unselfish  devotion  of 
purpose,  is  today  easily  the  peer  of  any  group  of 
women  in  the  civilized  world.  And  more  than  that,  in 
the  great  rank  and  file  of  our  five  million  women  we 
have  the  up-working  of  new  revolutionary  ideals, 
which  must  in  time  have  vast  influence  on  the  thought 
and  action  of  this  land. 

For  this,  their  promise,  and  for  their  hard  past, 
I  honor  the  women  of  my  race.    Their  beauty, — their 


i86  DARKWATER 

dark  and  mysterious  beauty  of  midnight  eyes,  crumpled 
hair,  and  soft,  full-featured  faces — is  perhaps  more  to 
me  than  to  you,  because  I  was  born  to  its  warm  and 
subtle  spell ;  but  their  worth  is  yours  as  well  as  mine. 
No  other  women  on  earth  could  have  emerged  from 
the  hell  of  force  and  temptation  which  once  engulfed 
and  still  surrounds  black  women  in  America  with  half 
the  modesty  and  womanliness  that  they  retain.  I  have 
always  felt  like  bowing  myself  before  them  in  all 
abasement,  searching  to  bring  some  tribute  to  these 
long-suffering  victims,  these  burdened  sisters  of  mine, 
whom  the  world,  the  wise,  white  world,  loves  to  af 
front  and  ridicule  and  wantonly  to  insult.  I  have 
known  the  women  of  many  lands  and  nations, — I  have 
known  and  seen  and  lived  beside  them,  but  none  have 
I  known  more  sweetly  feminine,  more  unswervingly 
loyal,  more  desperately  earnest,  and  more  instinctively 
pure  in  body  and  in  soul  than  the  daughters  of  my 
black  mothers.  This,  then, — a  little  thing — to  their 
memory  and  inspiration. 


Children  of  the  Moon 

I  am  dead; 

Yet  somehow,  somewhere, 

In  Time's  weird  contradiction,  I 

May  tell  of  that  dread  deed,  wherewith 

I  brought  to  Children  of  the  Moon 

Freedom  and  vast  salvation. 

I  was  a  woman  born, 

And  trod  the  streaming  street, 

That  ebbs  and  flows  from  Harlem's  hills, 

Through  caves  and  canons  limned  in  light, 

Down  to  the  twisting  sea. 

That  night  of  nights, 

I  stood  alone  and  at  the  End, 

Until  the  sudden  highway  to  the  moon, 

Golden  in   splendor, 

Became  too  real  to  doubt. 

Dimly  I  set  foot  upon  the  air, 
I  fled,  I  flew,  through  thrills  of  light, 
With  all  about,  above,  below,  the  whirring 
Of  almighty  wings. 

I  found  a  twilight  land, 
Where,  hardly  hid,  the  sun 
Sent  softly-saddened  rays  of 
Red  and  brown  to  burn  the  iron  soil 
And  bathe  the  snow-white  peaks 
In  mighty  splendor. 
187 


1 88  DARKWATER 

Black  were  the  men, 

Hard-haired  and  silent-slow, 

Moving  as  shadows, 

Bending  with  face  of  fear  to  earthward ; 

And  women  there  were  none. 

"  Woman,  woman,  woman !  " 
I  cried  in  mounting  terror. 
"  Woman  and  Child !  " 
And  the  cry  sang  back 
Through  heaven,  with  the 
Whirring  of  almighty  wings. 

Wings,  wings,  endless  wings, — 

Heaven  and  earth  are  wings; 

Wings  that  flutter,  furl,  and  fold, 

Always  folding  and  unfolding, 

Ever  folding  yet  again; 

Wings,  veiling  some  vast 

And  veiled  face, 

In  blazing  blackness, 

Behind  the  folding  and  unfolding, 

The  rolling  and  unrolling  of 

Almighty  wings! 

I  saw  the  black  men  huddle, 
Fumed  in  fear,  falling  face  downward ; 
Vainly  I  clutched  and  clawed, 
Dumbly  they  cringed  and  cowered, 
Moaning  in  mournful  monotone: 

O  Freedom,  O  Freedom, 
O  Freedom  over  me ; 
Before  I'll  be  a  slave, 
I'll  be  buried  in  my  grave, 
And  go  home  to  my  God, 
And  be  free. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  MOON  189 

It  was  as  angel-music 

From  the  dead, 

And  ever,  as  they  sang, 

Some  winged  thing  of  wings,  filling  all  heaven, 

Folding  and  unfolding,  and  folding  yet  again, 

Tore  out  their  blood  and  entrails, 

'Til  I  screamed  in  utter  terror ; 

And  a  silence  came, — 

A  silence  and  the  wailing  of  a  babe. 

Then,  at  last,  I  saw  and  shamed; 

I  knew  how  these  dumb,  dark,  and  dusky  things 

Had  given  blood  and  life, 

To  fend  the  caves  of  underground, 

The  great  black  caves  of  utter  night, 

Where  earth  lay  full  of  mothers 

And  their  babes. 

Little  children  sobbing  in  darkness, 
Little  children  crying  in  silent  pain, 
Little  mothers  rocking  and  groping  and  strug 
gling, 

Digging  and  delving  and  groveling, 
Amid  the  dying-dead  and  dead-in-life 
And  drip  and  dripping  of  warm,  wet  blood, 
Far,  far  beneath  the  wings, — 
The  folding  and  unfolding  of  almighty  wings. 

I  bent  with  tears  and  pitying  hands, 
Above  these  dusky  star-eyed  children, — 
Crinkly-haired,  with  sweet-sad  baby  voices, 
Pleading  low  for  light  and  love  and  living — 
And  I  crooned : 

"  Little  children  weeping  there, 
God  shall  find  your  faces  fair; 
Guerdon  for  your  deep  distress, 
He  shall  send  His  tenderness; 


DARKWATER 

For  the  tripping  of  your  feet 
Make  a  mystic  music  sweet 
In  the  darkness  of  your  hair ; 
Light  and  laughter  in  the  air — 
Little  children  weeping  there, 
God  shall  find  your  faces  fair ! " 

I  strode  above  the  stricken,  bleeding  men, 

The  rampart  'ranged  against  the  skies, 

And  shouted: 

"  Up,  I  say,  build  and  slay ; 

Fight  face  foremost,  force  a  way, 

Unloose,  unfetter,  and  unbind; 

Be  men  and  free !  " 

Dumbly  they  shrank, 

Muttering  they  pointed  toward  that  peak, 

Than  vastness  vaster, 

Whereon  a  darkness  brooded, 

"  Who  shall  look  and  live,"  they  sighed; 

And  I  sensed 

The  folding  and  unfolding  of  almighty  wings. 

Yet  did  we  build  of  iron,  bricks,  and  blood; 
We  built  a  day,  a  year,  a  thousand  years, 
Blood  was  the  mortar, — blood  and  tears, 
And,  ah,  the  Thing,  the  Thing  of  wings, 
The  winged,  folding  Wing  of  Things 
Did  furnish  much  mad  mortar 
For  that  tower. 

Slow  and  ever  slower  rose  the  towering  task, 
And  with  it  rose  the  sun, 
Until  at  last  on  one  wild  day, 
Wind-whirled,  cloud-swept  and  terrible 
I  stood  beneath  the  burning  shadow 
Of  the  peak, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  MOON          .     191 

Beneath  the  whirring  of  almighty  wings, 
While  downward  from  my  feet 
Streamed  the  long  line  of  dusky  faces 
And  the  wail  of  little  children  sobbing  under 
earth. 

Alone,  aloft, 

I  saw  through  firmaments  on  high 

The  drama  of  Almighty  God, 

With  all  its  flaming  suns  and  stars. 

"Freedom!"  I  cried. 

"  Freedom !  "  cried  heaven,  earth,  and  stars ; 

And  a  Voice  near-far, 

Amid  the  folding  and  unfolding  of  almighty 

wings, 

Answered,  "  I  am  Freedom — 
Who  sees  my  face  is  free — 
He  and  his." 

I  dared  not  look ; 

Downward  I  glanced  on  deep-bowed  heads  and 

closed  eyes, 

Outward  I  gazed  on  flecked  and  flaming  blue — 
But  ever  onward,  upward  flew 
The  sobbing  of  small  voices, — 
Down,  down,  far  down  into  the  night. 

Slowly  I  lifted  livid  limbs  aloft ; 
Upward  I  strove:  the  face!  the  face! 
Onward  I  reeled:  the  face!  the  face! 
To  beauty  wonderful  as  sudden  death, 
Or  horror  horrible  as  endless  life — 
Up!  Up!  the  blood-built  way; 
(Shadow  grow  vaster! 
Terror  come  faster!) 
Up!  Up!  to  the  blazing  blackness 
Of  one  veiled  face. 


192  DARKWATER 

And  endless  folding  and  unfolding, 

Rolling  and  unrolling  of  almighty  wings. 

The  last  step  stood! 

The  last  dim  cry  of  pain 

Fluttered  across  the  stars, 

And  then — 

Wings,  wings,  triumphant  wings, 

Lifting  and  lowering,  waxing  and  waning, 

Swinging  and  swaying,  twirling  and  whirling, 

Whispering  and  screaming,  streaming  and 
gleaming, 

Spreading  and  sweeping  and  shading  and  flam 
ing — 

Wings,  wings,  eternal  wings, 

'Til  the  hot,  red  blood, 

Flood  fleeing  flood, 

Thundered  through  heaven  and  mine  ears, 

While  all  across  a  purple  sky, 

The  last  vast  pinion. 

Trembled  to  unfold. 

I  rose  upon  the  Mountain  of  the  Moon, — 

I  felt  the  blazing  glory  of  the  Sun  ; 

I  heard  the  Song  of  Children  crying,  "  Free ! " 

I  saw  the  face  of  Freedom — 

And  I  died. 


VIII 
THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD 

IF  a  man  die  shall  he  live  again?  We  do  not  know. 
But  this  we  do  know,  that  our  children's  children  live 
forever  and  grow  and  develop  toward  perfection  as 
they  are  trained.  All  human  problems,  then,  center  in 
the  Immortal  Child  and  his  education  is  the  problem 
of  problems.  And  first  for  illustration  of  what  I 
would  say  may  I  not  take  for  example,  out  of  many 
millions,  the  life  of  one  dark  child. 

It  is  now  nineteen  years  since  I  first  saw  Coleridge- 
Taylor.  We  were  in  London  in  some  somber  hall 
where  there  were  many  meeting,  men  and  women 
called  chiefly  to  the  beautiful  World's  Fair  at  Paris; 
and  then  a  few  slipping  over  to  London  to  meet  Pan- 
Africa.  We  were  there  from  Cape  Colony  and  Li 
beria,  from  Haiti  and  the  States,  and  from  the  Islands 
of  the  Sea.  I  remember  the  stiff,  young  officer  who 
came  with  credentials  from  Menelik  of  Abyssinia;  I 
remember  the  bitter,  black  American  who  whispered 
how  an  army  of  the  Soudan  might  some  day  cross 
the  Alps;  I  remember  Englishmen,  like  the  Colensos, 
who  sat  and  counseled  with  us;  but  above  all,  I  re 
member  Coleridge-Taylor. 

He  was  a  little  man  and  nervous,  with  dark-golden 
face  and  hair  that  bushed  and  strayed.     His  fingers 

193 


194  DARKWATER 

were  always  nervously  seeking  hidden  keys  and  he 
was  quick  with  enthusiasm, — instinct  with  life.  His 
bride  of  a  year  or  more, — dark,  too,  in  her  whiter 
way, — was  of  the  calm  and  quiet  type.  Her  soft  con 
tralto  voice  thrilled  us  often  as  she  sang,  while  her 
silences  were  full  of  understanding. 

Several  times  we  met  in  public  gatherings  and  then 
they  bade  me  to  their  home, — a  nest  of  a  cottage, 
with  gate  and  garden,  hidden  in  London's  endless 
rings  of  suburbs.  I  dimly  recall  through  these  years 
a  room  in  cozy  disorder,  strewn  with  music — music 
on  the  floor  and  music  on  the  chairs,  music  in  the  air 
as  the  master  rushed  to  the  piano  now  and  again 
to  make  some  memory  melodious — some  allusion  real. 

And  then  at  last,  for  it  was  the  last,  I  saw  Coleridge- 
Taylor  in  a  mighty  throng  of  people  crowding  the 
Crystal  Palace.  We  came  in  facing  the  stage  and 
scarcely  dared  look  around.  On  the  stage  were  a 
full  orchestra,  a  chorus  of  eight  hundred  voices,  and 
some  of  the  world's  famous  soloists.  He  left  his  wife 
sitting  beside  me,  and  she  was  very  silent  as  he  went 
forward  to  lift  the  conductor's  baton.  It  was  one 
of  the  earliest  renditions  of  "  Hiawatha's  Wedding 
Feast."  We  sat  at  rapt  attention  and  when  the  last, 
weird  music  died,  the  great  chorus  and  orchestra  rose 
as  a  man  to  acclaim  the  master;  he  turned  toward  the 
audience  and  then  we  turning  for  the  first  time  saw 
that  sea  of  faces  behind, — the  misty  thousands  whose 
voices  rose  to  one  strong  shout  of  joy!  It  was  a 
moment  such  as  one  does  not  often  live.  It  seemed, 
and  was,  prophetic. 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  195 

This  young  man  who  stepped  forth  as  one  of  the 
most  notable  of  modern  English  composers  had  a 
simple  and  uneventful  career.  His  father  was  a  black 
surgeon  of  Sierra  Leone  who  came  to  London  for 
study.  While  there  he  met  an  English  girl  and  this 
son  was  born,  in  London,  in  1875. 

Then  came  a  series  of  chances.  His  father  failed 
to  succeed  and  disappeared  back  to  Africa  leaving  the 
support  of  the  child  to  the  poor  working  mother. 
The  child  showed  evidences  of  musical  talent  and  a 
friendly  workingman  gave  him  a  little  violin.  A  mu 
sician  glancing  from  his  window  saw  a  little  dark  boy 
playing  marbles  on  the  street  with  a  tiny  violin  in 
one  hand;  he  gave  him  lessons.  He  happened  to  gain 
entrance  into  a  charity  school  with  a  master  of  un 
derstanding  mind  who  recognized  genius  when  he  saw 
it;  and  finally  his  beautiful  child's  treble  brought  him 
to  the  notice  of  the  choirmaster  of  St.  George's, 
Croyden. 

So  by  happy  accident  his  way  was  clear.  Within 
his  soul  was  no  hesitation.  He  was  one  of  those 
fortunate  beings  who  are  not  called  to  Wander-Jahre, 
but  are  born  with  sails  set  and  seas  charted.  Already 
the  baby  of  four  little  years  was  a  musician,  and 
as  choir-boy  and  violinist  he  walked  unhesitatingly 
and  surely  to  his  life  work.  He  was  graduated  with 
honors  from  the  Royal  Academy  of  Music  in  1894, 
and  married  soon  after  the  daughter  of  one  of  his 
professors.  Then  his  life  began,  and  whatever  it 
lacked  of  physical  adventure  in  the  conventional  round 
of  a  modern  world-city,  it  more  than  gained  in  the 


196  DARKWATER 

almost  tempestuous  outpouring  of  his  spiritual  nature. 
Life  to  him  was  neither  meat  nor  drink, — it  was  crea 
tive  flame;  ideas,  plans,  melodies  glowed  within  him. 
To  create,  to  do,  to  accomplish;  to  know  the  white 
glory  of  mighty  midnights  and  the  pale  Amen  of 
dawns  was  his  day  of  days.  Songs,  pianoforte  and 
violin  pieces,  trios  and  quintets  for  strings,  incidental 
music,  symphony,  orchestral,  and  choral  works  rushed 
from  his  ringers.  Nor  were  they  laboriously  con 
trived  or  light,  thin  things  made  to  meet  sudden  pop 
ularity.  Rather  they  were  the  flaming  bits  that  must 
be  said  and  sung, — that  could  not  wait  the  slower 
birth  of  years,  so  hurried  to  the  world  as  though 
their  young  creator  knew  that  God  gave  him  but  a 
day.  His  whole  active  life  was  scarcely  more  than 
a  decade  and  a  half,  and  yet  in  that  time,  without 
wealth,  friends,  or  influence,  in  the  face  of  perhaps 
the  most  critical  and  skeptical  and  least  imaginative 
civilization  of  the  modern  world,  he  wrote  his  name 
so  high  as  a  creative  artist  that  it  cannot  soon  be 
forgotten. 

And  this  was  but  one  side  of  the  man.  On  the 
other  was  the  sweet-tempered,  sympathetic  comrade, 
always  willing  to  help,  never  knowing  how  to  refuse, 
generous  with  every  nerve  and  fiber  of  his  being. 
Think  of  a  young  musician,  father  of  a  family,  who 
at  the  time  of  his  death  held  positions  as  Associate 
of  the  Royal  College  of  Music,  Professor  in  Trinity 
College  and  Crystal  Palace,  Conductor  of  the  Handel 
Choral  Society  and  the  Rochester  Choral  Society, 
Principal  of  the  Guildhall  School  of  Music,  where  he 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  197 

had  charge  of  the  choral  choir,  the  orchestra,  and 
the  opera.  He  was  repeatedly  the  leader  of  music 
festivals  all  over  Great  Britain  and  a  judge  of  con 
tests.  And  with  all  this  his  house  was  open  in  cheer 
ing  hospitality  to  friends  and  his  hand  ever  ready 
with  sympathy  and  help. 

When  such  a  man  dies,  it  must  bring  pause  to  a 
reasoning  world.  We  may  call  his  death-sickness 
pneumonia,  but  we  all  know  that  it  was  sheer  over 
work, — the  using  of  a  delicately-tuned  instrument  too 
commonly  and  continuously  and  carelessly  to  let  it  last 
its  normal  life.  We  may  well  talk  of  the  waste  of 
wood  and  water,  of  food  and  fire,  but  the  real  and 
unforgivable  waste  of  modern  civilization  is  the  waste 
of  ability  and  genius, — the  killing  of  useful,  indis 
pensable  men  who  have  no  right  to  die ;  who  deserve, 
not  for  themselves,  but  for  the  world,  leisure,  freedom 
from  distraction,  expert  medical  advice,  and  intelli 
gent  sympathy. 

Coleridge-Taylor's  life  work  was  not  finished, — it 
was  but  well  begun.  He  lived  only  his  first  period 
of  creative  genius,  when  melody  and  harmony  flashed 
and  fluttered  in  subtle,  compelling,  and  more  than 
promising  profusion.  He  did  not  live  to  do  the  or 
ganized,  constructive  work  in  the  full,  calm  power 
of  noonday, — the  reflective  finishing  of  evening.  In 
the  annals  of  the  future  his  name  must  always  stand 
high,  but  with  the  priceless  gift  of  years,  who  can  say 
where  it  might  not  have  stood. 

Why  should  he  have  worked  so  breathlessly,  almost 
furiously?  It  was,  we  may  be  sure,  because  with 


ig8  DARKWATER 

unflinching  determination  and  with  no  thought  of 
surrender  he  faced  the  great  alternative, — the  choice 
which  the  cynical,  thoughtless,  busy,  modern  world 
spreads  grimly  before  its  greater  souls — food  or 
beauty,  bread  and  butter,  or  ideals.  And  continually 
we  see  worthier  men  turning  to  the  pettier,  cheaper 
thing — the  popular  portrait,  the  sensational  novel,  the 
jingling  song.  The  choice  is  not  always  between  the 
least  and  the  greatest,  the  high  and  the  empty,  but 
only  too  often  it  is  between  starvation  and  some 
thing.  When,  therefore,  we  see  a  man,  working  des 
perately  to  earn  a  living  and  still  stooping  to  no  paltry 
dickering  and  to  no  unworthy  work,  handing  away 
a  "  Hiawatha "  for  less  than  a  song,  pausing  for 
glimpses  of  the  stars  when  a  world  full  of  charcoal 
glowed  far  more  warmly  and  comfortably,  we  know 
that  such  a  man  is  a  hero  in  a  sense  never  approached 
by  the  swashbuckling  soldier  or  the  lying  patriot. 

Deep  as  was  the  primal  tragedy  in  the  life  of  Cole 
ridge-Taylor,  there  lay  another  still  deeper.  He 
smiled  at  it  lightly,  as  we  all  do, — we  who  live  within 
the  veil, — to  hide  the  deeper  hurt.  He  had,  with  us, 
that  divine  and  African  gift  of  laughter,  that  echo 
of  a  thousand  centuries  of  suns.  I  mind  me  how  once 
he  told  of  the  bishop,  the  well-groomed  English  bishop, 
who  eyed  the  artist  gravely,  with  his  eye-glass — hair 
and  color  and  figure, — and  said  quite  audibly  to  his 
friends,  "Quite  interesting — looks  intelligent, — yes — 
yes!" 

Fortunate  was  Coleridge-Taylor  to  be  born  in  Eu 
rope  and  to  speak  a  universal  tongue.  In  America 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  199 

he  could  hardly  have  had  his  career.  His  genius  was, 
to  be  sure,  recognized  (with  some  palpitation  and  con 
sternation)  when  it  came  full-grown  across  the  seas 
with  an  English  imprint;  but  born  here,  it  might  never 
have  been  permitted  to  grow.  We  know  in  America 
how  to  discourage,  choke,  and  murder  ability  when 
it  so  far  forgets  itself  as  to  choose  a  dark  skin.  Eng 
land,  thank  God,  is  slightly  more  civilized  than  her 
colonies;  but  even  there  the  path  of  this  young  man 
was  no  way  of  roses  and  just  a  shade  thornier  than 
that  of  whiter  men.  He  did  not  complain  at  it, — he 
did  not 

"  Wince  and  cry  aloud." 

Rather  the  hint  here  and  there  of  color  discrimina 
tion  in  England  aroused  in  him  deeper  and  more 
poignant  sympathy  with  his  people  throughout  the 
world.  He  was  one  with  that  great  company  of 
mixed-blooded  men:  Pushkin  and  Dumas,  Hamilton 
and  Douglass,  Browning  and  many  others;  but  he 
more  than  most  of  these  men  knew  the  call  of  the 
blood  when  it  came  and  listened  and  answered.  He 
came  to  America  with  strange  enthusiasm.  He  took 
with  quite  simple  and  unconscious  grace  the  conven 
tional  congratulations  of  the  musical  world.  He  was 
used  to  that.  But  to  his  own  people — to  the  sad 
sweetness  of  their  voices,  their  inborn  sense  of  music, 
their  broken,  half -articulate  voices, — he  leapt  with  new 
enthusiasm.  From  the  fainter  shadowings  of  his  own 
life,  he  sensed  instinctively  the  vaster  tragedy  of 
theirs.  His  soul  yearned  to  give  voice  and  being  to 


200  DARKWATER 

this  human  thing.  He  early  turned  to  the  sorrow 
songs.  He  sat  at  the  faltering  feet  of  Paul  Laurence 
Dunbar  and  he  asked  (as  we  sadly  shook  our  heads) 
for  some  masterpiece  of  this  world-tragedy  that  his 
soul  could  set  to  music.  And  then,  so  characteris 
tically,  he  rushed  back  to  England,  composed  a  half- 
dozen  exquisite  harmonies  haunted  by  slave-songs, 
led  the  Welsh  in  their  singing,  listened  to  the  Scotch, 
ordered  great  music  festivals  in  all  England,  wrote 
for  Beerbohm  Tree,  took  on  another  music  professor 
ship,  promised  a  trip  to  Germany,  and  at  last,  stagger 
ing  home  one  night,  on  his  way  to  his  wife  and  little 
boy  and  girl,  fell  in  his  tracks  and  in  four  days  was 
dead,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven.  They  say  that  in 
his  death-throe  he  arose  and  facing  some  great, 
ghostly  choir  raised  his  last  baton,  while  all  around 
the  massive  silence  rang  with  the  last  mist-music  of 
his  dying  ears. 

He  was  buried  from  St.  Michael's  on  September  5, 
1912,  with  the  acclaim  of  kings  and  music  masters 
and  little  children  and  to  the  majestic  melody  of  his 
own  music.  The  tributes  that  followed  him  to  his 
grave  were  unusually  hearty  and  sincere.  The  head 
of  the  Royal  College  calls  the  first  production  of 
"  Hiawatha "  one  of  the  most  remarkable  events  in 
modern  English  musical  history  and  the  trilogy  one 
of  the  most  universally-beloved  works  of  modern 
English  music.  One  critic  calls  Taylor's  a  name 
"  which  with  that  of  Elgar  represented  the  nation's 
most  individual  output "  and  calls  his  "  Atonement " 
"  perhaps  the  finest  passion  music  of  modern  times." 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  201 

Another  critic  speaks  of  his  originality :  "  Though 
surrounded  by  the  influences  that  are  at  work  in  Eu 
rope  today,  he  retained  his  individuality  to  the  end, 
developing  his  style,  however,  and  evincing  new  ideas 
in  each  succeeding  work.  His  untimely  death  at  the 
age  of  thirty-seven,  a  short  life — like  those  of  Schu 
bert,  Mendelssohn,  Chopin,  and  Hugo  Wolf — has 
robbed  the  world  of  one  of  its  noblest  singers,  one 
of  those  few  men  of  modern  times  who  found  ex 
pression  in  the  language  of  musical  song,  a  lyricist 
of  power  and  worth." 

But  the  tributes  did  not  rest  with  the  artist;  with 
peculiar  unanimity  they  sought  his  "  sterling  charac 
ter,"  "  the  good  husband  and  father,"  the  "  staunch 
and  loyal  friend."  And  perhaps  I  cannot  better  end 
these  hesitating  words  than  with  that  tribute  from 
one  who  called  this  master,  friend,  and  whose  lament 
cried  in  the  night  with  more  of  depth  and  passion 
than  Alfred  Noyes  is  wont  in  his  self -repression  to 
voice :  / 

"  Through  him,  his  race,  a  moment,  lifted  up 
Forests  of  hands  to  beauty,  as  in  prayer, 
Touched  through  his  lips  the  sacramental  cup 

And  then  sank  back,  benumbed  in  our  bleak  air." 

Yet,  consider :  to  many  millions  of  people  this  man 
was  all  wrong.  First,  he  ought  never  to  have  been 
born,  for  he  was  the  mulatto  son  of  a  white  woman. 
Secondly,  he  should  never  have  been  educated  as  a 
musician, — he  should  have  been  trained  for  his 
"  place  "  in  the  world  and  to  make  him  satisfied  there- 


202  DARKWATER 

with.  Thirdly,  he  should  not  have  married  the 
woman  he  loved  and  who  loved  him,  for  she  was 
white  and  the  niece  of  an  Oxford  professor. 
Fourthly,  the  children  of  such  a  union — but  why  pro 
ceed?  You  know  it  all  by  heart. 

If  he  had  been  black,  like  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar, 
would  the  argument  have  been  different?  No.  He 
should  never  have  been  born,  for  he  is  a  "  problem." 
He  should  never  be  educated,  for  he  cannot  be  edu 
cated.  He  should  never  marry,  for  that  means  chil 
dren  and  there  is  no  place  for  black  children  in  this 
world. 

In  the  treatment  of  the  child  the  world  foreshadows 
its  own  future  and  faith.  All  words  and  all  thinking 
lead  to  the  child, — to  that  vast  immortality  and  wide 
sweep  of  infinite  possibility  which  the  child  repre 
sents.  Such  thought  as  this  it  was  that  made  the 
Master  say  of  old  as  He  saw  baby  faces: 

"And  whosoever  shall  offend  one  of  these  little 
ones,  it  is  better  for  him  that  a  millstone  were  hanged 
about  his  neck  and  he  were  cast  into  the  sea." 

And  yet  the  mothers  and  fathers  and  the  men  and 
women  of  my  race  must  often  pause  and  ask:  Is  it 
worth  while?  Ought  children  be  born  to  us?  Have 
we  any  right  to  make  human  souls  face  what  we 
face  today?  The  answer  is  clear:  If  the  great  battle 
of  human  right  against  poverty,  against  disease, 
against  color  prejudice  is  to  be  won,  it  must  be  won, 
not  in  our  day,  but  in  the  day  of  our  children's  chil 
dren.  Ours  is  the  blood  and  dust  of  battle;  theirs 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  203 

the  rewards  of  victory.  If,  then,  they  are  not  there 
because  we  have  not  brought  them  into  the  world,  we 
have  been  the  guiltiest  factor  in  conquering  ourselves. 
It  is  our  duty,  then,  to  accomplish  the  immortality  of 
black  blood,  in  order  that  the  day  may  come  in  this 
dark  world  when  poverty  shall  be  abolished,  privilege 
be  based  on  individual  desert,  and  the  color  of  a  man's 
skin  be  no  bar  to  the  outlook  of  his  soul. 

If  it  is  our  duty  as  honest  colored  men  and  women, 
battling  for  a  great  principle,  to  bring  not  aimless 
rafts  of  children  to  the  world,  but  as  many  as,  with 
reasonable  sacrifice,  we  can  train  to  largest  manhood, 
what  in  its  inner  essence  shall  that  training  be,  par 
ticularly  in  its  beginning? 

The  first  temptation  is  to  shield  the  child, — to  hedge 
it  about  that  it  may  not  know  and  will  not  dream 
of  the  color  line.  Then  when  we  can  no  longer  wholly 
shield,  to  indulge  and  pamper  and  coddle,  as  though 
in  this  dumb  way  to  compensate.  From  this  attitude 
comes  the  multitude  of  our  spoiled,  wayward,  disap 
pointed  children.  And  must  we  not  blame  ourselves? 
For  while  the  motive  was  pure  and  the  outer  menace 
undoubted,  is  shielding  and  indulgence  the  way  to 
meet  it? 

Some  Negro  parents,  realizing  this,  leave  their  chil 
dren  to  sink  or  swim  in  this  sea  of  race  prejudice. 
They  neither  shield  nor  explain,  but  thrust  them  forth 
grimly  into  school  or  street  and  let  them  learn  as 
they  may  from  brutal  fact.  Out  of  this  may  come 
strength,  poise,  self-dependence,  and  out  of  it,  too, 
may  come  bewilderment,  cringing  deception,  and  self- 


204  DARKWATER 

distrust.  It  is,  all  said,  a  brutal,  unfair  method,  and 
in  its  way  it  is  as  bad  as  shielding  and  indulgence. 
Why  not,  rather,  face  the  facts  and  tell  the  truth? 
Your  child  is  wiser  than  you  think. 

The  truth  lies  ever  between  extremes.  It  is  wrong 
to  introduce  the  child  to  race  consciousness  prema 
turely;  it  is  dangerous  to  let  that  consciousness  grow 
spontaneously  without  intelligent  guidance.  With 
every  step  of  dawning  intelligence,  explanation — 
frank,  free,  guiding  explanation — must  come.  The 
day  will  dawn  when  mother  must  explain  gently  but 
clearly  why  the  little  girls  next  door  do  not  want  to 
play  with  "niggers";  what  the  real  cause  is  of  the 
teachers'  unsympathetic  attitude ;  and  how  people  may 
ride  in  the  backs  of  street  cars  and  the  smoker  end 
of  trains  and  still  be  people,  honest  high-minded  souls. 

Remember,  too,  that  in  such  frank  explanation  you 
are  speaking  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  to  a  good  deal 
clearer  understanding  than  you  think  and  that  the 
child-mind  has  what  your  tired  soul  may  have  lost 
faith  in, — the  Power  and  the  Glory. 

Out  of  little,  unspoiled  souls  rise  up  wonderful  re 
sources  and  healing  balm.  Once  the  colored  child  un 
derstands  the  white  world's  attitude  and  the  shameful 
wrong  of  it,  you  have  furnished  it  with  a  great  life 
motive, — a  power  and  impulse  toward  good  which  is 
the  mightiest  thing  man  has.  How  many  white  folk 
would  give  their  own  souls  if  they  might  graft  into 
their  children's  souls  a  great,  moving,  guiding  ideal! 

With  this  Power  there  comes,  in  the  transfiguring 
soul  of  childhood,  the  Glory :  the  vision  of  accomplish- 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  205 

ment,  the  lofty  ideal.  Once  let  the  strength  of  the 
motive  work,  and  it  becomes  the  life  task  of  the 
parent  to  guide  and  to  shape  the  ideal;  to  raise  it 
from  resentment  and  revenge  to  dignity  and  self-re 
spect,  to  breadth  and  accomplishment,  to  human  serv 
ice;  to  beat  back  every  thought  of  cringing  and  sur 
render. 

Here,  at  last,  we  can  speak  with  no  hesitation,  with 
no  lack  of  faith.  For  we  know  that  as  the  world 
grows  better  there  will  be  realized  in  our  children's 
lives  that  for  which  we  fight  unfalteringly,  but  vainly 
now. 

So  much  for  the  problem  of  the  home  and  our  own 
dark  children.  Now  let  us  look  beyond  the  pale  upon 
the  children  of  the  wide  world.  What  is  the  real 
lesson  of  the  life  of  Coleridge-Taylor?  It  is  this: 
humanly  speaking  it  was  sheer  accident  that  this  boy 
developed  his  genius.  We  have  a  right  to  assume 
that  hundreds  and  thousands  of  boys  and  girls  today 
are  missing  the  chance  of  developing  unusual  talents 
because  the  chances  have  been  against  them;  and  that 
indeed  the  majority  of  the  children  of  the  world  are 
not  being  systematically  fitted  for  their  life  work  and 
for  life  itself.  Why? 

Many  seek  the  reason  in  the  content  of  the  school 
program.  They  feverishly  argue  the  relative  values 
of  Greek,  mathematics,  and  manual  training,  but  fail 
with  singular  unanimity  in  pointing  out  the  funda 
mental  cause  of  our  failure  in  human  education :  That 
failure  is  due  to  the  fact  that  we  aim  not  at  the  full 
development  of  the  child,  but  that  the  world  regards 


206  DARKWATER 

and  always  has  regarded  education  first  as  a  means 
of  buttressing  the  established  order  of  things  rather 
than  improving  it.  And  this  is  the  real  reason  why 
strife,  war,  and  revolution  have  marked  the  onward 
march  of  humanity  instead  of  reason  and  sound  re 
form.  Instead  of  seeking  to  push  the  coming  genera 
tion  ahead  of  our  pitiful  accomplishment,  we  insist 
that  it  march  behind.  We  say,  morally,  that  high 
character  is  conformity  to  present  public  opinion;  we 
say  industrially  that  the  present  order  is  best  and  that 
children  must  be  trained  to  perpetuate  it. 

But,  it  is  objected,  what  else  can  we  do?  Can  we 
teach  Revolution  to  the  inexperienced  in  hope  that 
they  may  discern  progress?  No,  but  we  may  teach 
frankly  that  this  world  is  not  perfection,  but  develop 
ment:  that  the  object  of  education  is  manhood  and 
womanhood,  clear  reason,  individual  talent  and  genius 
and  the  spirit  of  service  and  sacrifice,  and  not  simply 
a  frantic  effort  to  avoid  change  in  present  institutions; 
that  industry  is  for  man  and  not  man  for  industry 
and  that  while  we  must  have  workers  to  work,  the 
prime  object  of  our  training  is  not  the  work  but  the 
worker — not  the  maintenance  of  present  industrial 
caste  but  the  development  of  human  intelligence 
by  which  drudgery  may  be  lessened  and  beauty 
widened. 

Back  of  our  present  educational  system  is  the  phil 
osophy  that  sneers  at  the  foolish  Fathers  who  believed 
it  self-evident,  "  that  all  men  were  created  free  and 
equal."  Surely  the  overwhelming  evidence  is  to 
day  that  men  are  slaves  and  unequal.  But  is  it  not 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  207 

education  that  is  the  creator  of  this  freedom  and  equal 
ity?  Most  men  today  cannot  conceive  of  a  freedom 
that  does  not  involve  somebody's  slavery.  They  do 
not  want  equality  because  the  thrill  of  their  happiness 
comes  from  having  things  that  others  have  not.  But 
may  not  human  education  fix  the  fine  ideal  of  an 
equal  maximum  of  freedom  for  every  human  soul 
combined  with  that  minimum  of  slavery  for  each  soul 
which  the  inexorable  physical  facts  of  the  world  im 
pose — rather  than  complete  freedom  for  some  and  com 
plete  slavery  for  others;  and,  again,  is  not  the  equality 
toward  which  the  world  moves  an  equality  of  honor 
in  the  assigned  human  task  itself  rather  than  equal 
facility  in  doing  different  tasks?  Human  equality  is 
not  lack  of  difference,  nor  do  the  infinite  human  dif 
ferences  argue  relative  superiority  and  inferiority. 
And,  again,  how  new  an  aspect  human  differences  may 
assume  when  all  men  are  educated.  Today  we  think 
of  apes,  semi-apes,  and  human  beings;  tomorrow 
we  may  think  of  Keir  Hardies,  Roosevelts,  and 
Beethovens — not  equals  but  men.  Today  we  are 
forcing  men  into  educational  slavery  in  order  that 
others  may  enjoy  life,  and  excuse  ourselves  by  saying 
that  the  world's  work  must  be  done.  We  are  degrad 
ing  some  sorts  of  work  by  honoring  others,  and  then 
expressing  surprise  that  most  people  object  to  having 
their  children  trained  solely  to  take  up  their  father's 
tasks. 

Given  as  the  ideal  the  utmost  possible  freedom  for 
every  human  soul,  with  slavery  for  none,  and  equal 
honor  for  all  necessary  human  tasks,  then  our  prob- 


208  DARKWATER 

lem  of  education  is  greatly  simplified:  we  aim  to  de 
velop  human  souls;  to  make  all  intelligent;  to  discover 
special  talents  and  genius.  With  this  course  of  train 
ing  beginning  in  early  childhood  and  never  ceasing 
must  go  the  technical  training  for  the  present  world's 
work  according  to  carefully  studied  individual  gifts 
and  wishes. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  we  arrange  our  system  of 
education  to  develop  workmen  who  will  not  strike  and 
Negroes  satisfied  with  their  present  place  in  the  world, 
we  have  set  ourselves  a  baffling  task.  We  find  our 
selves  compelled  to  keep  the  masses  ignorant  and  to 
curb  our  own  thought  and  expression  so  as  not  to 
inflame  the  ignorant.  We  force  moderate  reformers 
and  men  with  new  and  valuable  ideas  to  become  red 
radicals  and  revolutionists,  since  that  happens  to  be 
the  only  way  to  make  the  world  listen  to  reason. 
Consider  our  race  problem  in  the  South:  the  South 
has  invested  in  Negro  ignorance;  some  Northerners 
proposed  limited  education,  not,  they  explained,  to  bet 
ter  the  Negro,  but  merely  to  make  the  investment  more 
profitable  to  the  present  beneficiaries.  They  thus 
gained  wide  Southern  support  for  schools  like  Hamp 
ton  and  Tuskegee.  But  could  this  program  be  ex 
pected  long  to  satisfy  colored  folk?  And  was  this 
shifty  dodging  of  the  real  issue  the  wisest  statesman 
ship  ?  No !  The  real  question  in  the  South  is  the  ques 
tion  of  the  permanency  of  present  color  caste.  The 
problem,  then,  of  the  formal  training  of  our  colored 
children  has  been  strangely  complicated  by  the  strong 
feeling  of  certain  persons  as  to  their  future  in  America 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  209 

and  the  world.  And  the  reaction  toward  this  caste 
education  has  strengthened  the  idea  of  caste  educa 
tion  throughout  the  world. 

Let  us  then  return  to  fundamental  ideals.  Children 
must  be  trained  in  a  knowledge  of  what  the  world  is 
and  what  it  knows  and  how  it  does  its  daily  work. 
These  things  cannot  be  separated :  we  cannot  teach 
pure  knowledge  apart  from  actual  facts,  or  separate 
truth  from  the  human  mind.  Above  all  we  must  not 
forget  that  the  object  of  all  education  is  the  child  it 
self  and  not  what  it  does  or  makes. 

It  is  here  that  a  great  movement  in  America  has 
grievously  sinned  against  the  light.  There  has  arisen 
among  us  a  movement  to  make  the  Public  School  pri 
marily  the  hand-maiden  of  production.  America  is 
conceived  of  as  existing  for  the  sake  of  its  mines,  fields 
and  factories,  and  not  those  factories,  fields  and  mines 
as  existing  for  America.  Consequently,  the  public 
schools  are  for  training  the  mass  of  men  as  servants 
and  laborers  and  mechanics  to  increase  the  land's  in 
dustrial  efficiency. 

Those  who  oppose  this  program,  especially  if  they 
are  black,  are  accused  of  despising  common  toil  and 
humble  service.  In  fact,  we  Negroes  are  but  facing 
in  our  own  children  a  world  problem :  how  can  we, 
while  maintaining  a  proper  output  of  goods  and  fur 
nishing  needed  services,  increase  the  knowledge  of 
experience  of  common  men  and  conserve  genius  for 
the  common  weal  ?  Without  wider,  deeper  intelligence 
among  the  masses  Democracy  cannot  accomplish  its 
greater  ends.  Without  a  more  careful  conservation 


2io  DARKWATER 

of  human  ability  and  talent  the  world  cannot  secure 
the  services  which  its  greater  needs  call  for.  Yet 
today  who  goes  to  college,  the  Talented  or  the  Rich? 
Who  goes  to  high  school,  the  Bright  or  the  Well-to- 
Do  ?  Who  does  the  physical  work  of  the  world,  those 
whose  muscles  need  the  exercise  or  those  whose  souls 
and  minds  are  stupefied  with  manual  toil  ?  How  is  the 
drudgery  of  the  world  distributed,  by  thoughtful  jus 
tice  or  the  lash  of  Slavery? 

We  cannot  base  the  education  of  future  citizens  on 
the  present  inexcusable  inequality  of  wealth  nor  on 
physical  differences  of  race.  We  must  seek  not  to 
make  men  carpenters  but  to  make  carpenters  men. 

Colored  Americans  must  then  with  deep  determina 
tion  educate  their  children  in  the  broadest,  highest 
way.  They  must  fill  the  colleges  with  the  talented  and 
fill  the  fields  and  shops  with  the  intelligent.  Wisdom 
is  the  principal  thing.  Therefore,  get  wisdom. 

But  why  am  I  talking  simply  of  "  colored  "  chil 
dren?  Is  not  the  problem  of  their  education  simply 
an  intensification  of  the  problem  of  educating  all  chil 
dren  ?  Look  at  our  plight  in  the  United  States,  nearly 
150  years  after  the  establishment  of  a  government 
based  on  human  intelligence. 

•  If  we  take  the  figures  of  the  Thirteenth  Census,  we 
find  that  there  were  five  and  one-half  million  illiterate 
Americans  of  whom  3,184,633  were  white.  Remem 
bering  that  illiteracy  is  a  crude  and  extreme  test  of  ig 
norance,  we  may  assume  that  there  are  in  the  United 
States  ten  million  people  over  ten  years  of  age  who 
are  too  ignorant  either  to  perform  their  civic  duties  or 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  211 

to  teach  industrial  efficiency.     Moreover,  it  does  not 
seem  that  this  illiteracy  is  disappearing  rapidly. 

For  instance,  nine  per  cent  of  American  children  be 
tween  ten  and  nineteen  years  of  age  cannot  read  and 
write.  Moreover,  there  are  millions  of  children  who, 
judging  by  the  figures  for  the  s'chool  year  1909-10,  are 
not  going  to  learn  to  read  and  write,  for  of  the  Ameri 
cans  six  to  fourteen  years  of  age  there  were  3,125,392 
who  were  not  in  school  a  single  day  during  that  year. 
If  we  take  the  eleven  million  youths  fifteen  to  twenty 
years  of  age  for  whom  vocational  training  is  particu 
larly  adapted,  we  find  that  nearly  five  per  cent  of 
these,  or  448,414,  are  absolutely  illiterate;  it  is  not  too 
much  to  assume  that  a  million  of  them  have  not  ac 
quired  enough  of  the  ordinary  tools  of  intelligence  to 
make  the  most  of  efficient  vocational  training. 

Confining  ourselves  to  the  white  people,  over  fifteen 
per  cent  of  the  white  children  six  to  fourteen  years  of 
age,  or  2,253,198,  did  not  attend  school  during  the 
school  year  1909-10.  Of  the  native  white  children  of 
native  parents  ten  to  fourteen  years  of  age  nearly  a 
tenth  were  not  in  school  during  that  year;  121,878 
native  white  children  of  native  parents,  fifteen  to  nine 
teen  years  of  age,  were  illiterate. 

If  we  confine  our  attention  to  the  colored  children, 
the  case  is,  of  course,  much  worse. 

We  cannot  hope  to  make  intelligent  workmen  and 
intelligent  citizens  of  a  group  of  people,  over  forty 
per  cent  of  whose  children  six  to  fourteen  years  of 
age  were  not  in  school  a  single  day  during  1909-10; 
for  the  other  sixty  per  cent  the  school  term  in  the 


212  DARKWATER 

majority  of  cases  was  probably  less  than  five  months. 
Of  the  Negro  children  ten  to  fourteen  years  of  age 
18.9  per  cent  were  illiterate;  of  those  fifteen  to  nine 
teen  years  of  age  20.3  per  cent  were  illiterate;  of  those 
ten  to  fourteen  years  of  age  31.4  per  cent,  did  not  go 
to  school  a  single  day  in  1909-10. 

What  is  the  trouble?  It  is  simple.  We  are  spend 
ing  one  dollar  for  education  where  we  should  spend 
ten  dollars.  If  tomorrow  we  multiplied  our  effort  to 
educate  the  next  generation  ten-fold,  we  should  but 
begin  our  bounden  duty.  The  heaven  that  lies  about 
our  infancy  is  but  the  ideals  come  true  which  every 
generation  of  children  is  capable  of  bringing;  but  we, 
selfish  in  our  own  ignorance  and  incapacity,  are  mak 
ing  of  education  a  series  of  miserable  compromises: 
How  ignorant  can  we  let  a  child  grow  to  be  in  order 
to  make  him  the  best  cotton  mill  operative  ?  What  is 
the  least  sum  that  will  keep  the  average  youth  out  of 
jail?  How  many  months  saved  on  a  high  school 
course  will  make  the  largest  export  of  wheat? 

If  we  realized  that  children  are  the  future,  that 
immortality  is  the  present  child,  that  no  education 
which  educates  can  possibly  be  too  costly,  then  we 
know  that  the  menace  of  Kaiserism  which  called  for 
the  expenditure  of  more  than  332  thousand  millions 
of  dollars  was  not  a  whit  more  pressing  than  the 
menace  of  ignorance,  and  that  no  nation  tomorrow 
will  call  itself  civilized  which  does  not  give  every 
single  human  being  college  and  vocational  training 
free  and  under  the  best  teaching  force  procurable  for 
love  or  money. 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  213 

This  world  has  never  taken  the  education  of  chil 
dren  seriously.  Misled  by  selfish  dreamings  of  per 
sonal  life  forever,  we  have  neglected  the  true  and 
practical  immortality  through  the  endless  life  of  chil 
dren's  children.  Seeking  counsels  of  our  own  souls' 
perfection,  we  have  despised  and  rejected  the  possible 
increasing  perfection  of  unending  generations.  Or 
if  we  are  thrown  back  in  pessimistic  despair  from  mak 
ing  living  folk  decent,  we  leap  to  idle  speculations  of 
a  thousand  years  hereafter  instead  of  working  stead 
ily  and  persistently  for  the  next  generation. 

All  our  problems  center  in  the  child.  All  our  hopes, 
our  dreams  are  for  our  children.  Has  our  own  life 
failed?  Let  its  lesson  save  the  children's  lives  from 
similar  failure.  Is  democracy  a  failure?  Train  up 
citizens  that  will  make  it  succeed.  Is  wealth  too 
crude,  too  foolish  in  form,  and  too  easily  stolen? 
Train  up  workers  with  honor  and  consciences  and 
brains.  Have  we  degraded  service  with  menials? 
Abolish  the  mean  spirit  and  implant  sacrifice.  Do  we 
despise  women?  Train  them  as  workers  and  thinkers 
and  not  as  playthings,  lest  future  generations  ape 
our  worst  mistake.  Do  we  despise  darker  races? 
Teach  the  children  its  fatal  cost  in  spiritual  degrada 
tion  and  murder,  teach  them  that  to  hate  "  niggers  " 
or  "  chinks  "  is  to  crucify  souls  like  their  own.  Is 
there  anything  we  would  accomplish  with  human  be 
ings?  Do  it  with  the  immortal  child,  with  a  stretch 
of  endless  time  for  doing  it  and  with  infinite  possibili 
ties  to  work  on. 

Is  this  our  attitude  toward  education?    It  is  not — 


214  DARKWATER 

neither  in  England  nor  America — in  France  nor  Ger 
many — with  black  nor  white  nor  yellow  folk.  Educa 
tion  to  the  modern  world  is  a  burden  which  we  are 
driven  to  carry.  We  shirk  and  complain.  We  do  just 
as  little  as  possible  and  only  threat  or  catastrophe  in 
duces  us  to  do  more  than  a  minimum.  If  the  Ignorant 
mass,  panting  to  know,  revolts,  we  dole  them  gingerly 
enough  knowledge  to  pacify  them  temporarily.  If,  as 
in  the  Great  War,  we  discover  soldiers  too  ignorant 
to  use  our  machines  of  murder  and  destruction,  we 
train  them — to  use  machines  of  murder  and  destruc 
tion.  If  mounting  wealth  calls  for  intelligent  work 
men,  we  rush  tumultuously  to  train  workers — in  order 
to  increase  our  wealth.  But  of  great,  broad  plans  to 
train  all  men  for  all  things — to  make  a  universe  intelli 
gent,  busy,  good,  creative  and  beautiful — where  in  this 
wide  world  is  such  an  educational  program?  To  an 
nounce  it  is  to  invite  gasps  or  Brobdingnagian  laughter. 
It  cannot  be  done.  It  will  cost  too  much. 

What  has  been  done  with  man  can  be  done  with 
men,  if  the  world  tries  long  enough  and  hard  enough. 
And  as  to  the  cost — all  the  wealth  of  the  world,  save 
that  necessary  for  sheer  decent  existence  and  for  the 
maintenance  of  past  civilization,  is,  and  of  right  ought 
to  be,  the  property  of  the  children  for  their  education. 

I  mean  it.  In  one  year,  1917,  we  spent  $96,700,- 
000,000  for  war.  We  blew  it  away  to  murder,  maim, 
and  destroy!  Why?  Because  the  blind,  brutal  crime 
of  powerful  and  selfish  interests  made  this  path 
through  hell  the  only  visible  way  to  heaven.  We  did 
it.  We  had  to  do  it,  and  we  are  glad  the  putrid  horror 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  215 

is  over.  But,  now,  are  we  prepared  to  spend  less  to 
make  a  world  in  which  the  resurgence  of  such  devilish 
power  will  be  impossible  ? 

Do  we  really  want  war  to  cease? 

Then  educate  the  children  of  this  generation  at  a 
cost  no  whit  less  and  if  necessary  a  hundred  times 
as  great  as  the  cost  of  the  Great  War. 

Last  year,  1917,  education  cost  us  $915,000,000. 

Next  year  it  ought  to  cost  us  at  least  two  thousand 
million  dollars.  We  should  spend  enough  money  to 
hire  the  best  teaching  force  possible — the  best  organiz 
ing  and  directing  ability  in  the  land,  even  if  we  have  to 
strip  the  railroads  and  meat  trust.  We  should  dot 
city  and  country  with  the  most  efficient,  sanitary,  and 
beautiful  school-houses  the  world  knows  and  we 
should  give  every  American  child  common  school, 
high  school,  and  college  training  and  then  vocational 
guidance  in  earning  a  living. 

Is  this  a  dream? 

Can  we  afford  less? 

Consider  our  so-called  educational  "problems": 
"  How  may  we  keep  pupils  in  the  high  school  ? " 
Feed  and  clothe  them.  "  Shall  we  teach  Latin,  Greek, 
and  mathematics  to  the  '  masses  '  ?  "  If  they  are  worth 
teaching  to  anybody,  the  masses  need  them  most. 
"Who  shall  go  to  college?"  Everybody.  "When 
shall  culture  training  give  place  to  technical  educa 
tion  for  work?"  Never. 

These  questions  are  not  "  problems."  They  are 
simply  "  excuses  "  for  spending  less  time  and  money 
on  the  next  generation.  Given  ten  millions  of  dollars 


2i6  DARKWATER 

a  year,  what  can  we  best  do  with  the  education  of  a 
million  children?  The  real  answer  is — kill  nine  hun 
dred  and  ninety  thousand  of  them  quickly  and  not 
gradually,  and  make  thoroughly-trained  men  and 
women  of  the  other  ten  thousand.  But  who  set  the 
limit  of  ten  million  dollars?  Who  says  it  shall  not 
be  ten  thousand  millions,  as  it  ought  to  be  ?  You  and 
I  say  it,  and  in  saying  it  we  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost. 

We  sin  because  in  our  befuddled  brains  we  have 
linked  money  and  education  inextricably.  We  assume 
that  only  the  wealthy  have  a  real  right  to  education 
when,  in  fact,  being  born  is  being  given  a  right  to 
college  training.  Our  wealth  today  is,  we  all  know, 
distributed  mainly  by  chance  inheritance  and  personal 
favor  and  yet  we  attempt  to  base  the  right  to  educa 
tion  on  this  foundation.  The  result  is  grotesque! 
We  bury  genius;  we  send  it  to  jail;  we  ridicule  and 
mock  it,  while  we  send  mediocrity  and  idiocy  to  col 
lege,  gilded  and  crowned.  For  three  hundred  years 
we  have  denied  black  Americans  an  education  and 
now  we  exploit  them  before  a  gaping  world :  See 
how  ignorant  and  degraded  they  are!  All  they  are 
fit  for  is  education  for  cotton-picking  and  dish-wash 
ing.  When  Dunbar  and  Taylor  happen  along,  we  are 
torn  between  something  like  shamefaced  anger  or 
impatient  amazement. 

A  world  guilty  of  this  last  and  mightiest  war  has 
no  right  to  enjoy  or  create  until  it  has  made  the  future 
safe  from  another  Arkansas  or  Rheims.  To  this  there 
is  but  one  patent  way,  proved  and  inescapable,  Educa- 


THE  IMMORTAL  CHILD  217 

tion,  and  that  not  for  me  or  for  you  but  for  the  Im 
mortal  Child.  And  that  child  is  of  all  races  and  all 
colors.  All  children  are  the  children  of  all  and  not  of 
individuals  and  families  and  races.  The  whole  gen 
eration  must  be  trained  and  guided  and  out  of  it 
as  out  of  a  huge  reservoir  must  be  lifted  all  genius, 
talent,  and  intelligence  to  serve  all  the  world. 


Almighty  D.eath  * 

Softly,  quite  softly — 

For  I  hear,  above  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 

Faint  and  far- fallen  footsteps,  as  of  One 

Who  comes  from  out  beyond  the  endless  ends  of  Time, 

With  voice  that  downward  looms  thro*  singing  stars; 

Its  subtle  sound  I  see  thro'  these  long-darkened  eyes, 

I  hear  the  Light  He  bringeth  on  His  hands — 

Almighty  Death! 

Softly,  oh,  softly,  lest  He  pass  me  by, 

And  that  unquivering  Light  toward  which  my  longing 

soul 

And  tortured  body  through  these  years  have  writhed, 
Fade  to  the  dun  darkness  of  my  days. 

Softly,  full  softly,  let  me  rise  and  greet 

The  strong,  low  luting  of  that  long-awaited  call ; 

Swiftly  be  all  my  good  and  going  gone, 

And  this  vast  veiled  and  vanquished  vigor  of  my  soul 

Seek  somehow  otherwhere  its  rest  and  goal, 

Where  endless  spaces  stretch, 

Where  endless  time  doth  moan, 

Where  endless  light  doth  pour 

Thro'  the  black  kingdoms  of  eternal  death. 

Then  haply  I  may  see  what  things  I  have  not  seen, 
Then  I  may  know  what  things  I  have  not  known; 
Then  may  I  do  my  dreams. 
Farewell!     No  sound  of  idle  mourning  let  there  be 

*For  Joseph  Pulitzer,  October  29,  1911. 

219 


220  DARKWATER 

To  shudder  this  full  silence — save  the  voice 
Of  children — little  children,  white  and  black, 
Whispering  the  deeds  I  tried  to  do  for  them; 
While  I  at  last  unguided  and  alone 
Pass  softly,  full  softly. 


IX 

OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH 

FOR  long  years  we  of  the  world  gone  wild  have  looked 
into  the  face  of  death  and  smiled.  Through  all  our 
bitter  tears  we  knew  how  beautiful  it  was  to  die 
for  that  which  our  souls  called  sufficient.  Like  all 
true  beauty  this  thing  of  dying  was  so  simple,  so 
matter-of-fact.  The  boy  clothed  in  his  splendid  youth 
stood  before  us  and  laughed  in  his  own  jolly  way, — 
went  and  was  gone.  Suddenly  the  world  was  full  of 
the  fragrance  of  sacrifice.  We  left  our  digging  and 
burden-bearing;  we  turned  from  our  scraping  and 
twisting  of  things  and  words;  we  paused  from  our 
hurrying  hither  and  thither  and  walking  up  and  down, 
and  asked  in  half-whisper:  this  Death — is  this  Life? 
And  is  its  beauty  real  or  false?  And  of  this  heart- 
questioning  I  am  writing. 

My  friend,  who  is  pale  and  positive,  said  to  me 
yesterday,  as  the  tired  sun  was  nodding: 

"  You  are  too  sensitive." 

I  admit,  I  am — sensitive.  I  am  artificial.  I  cringe 
or  am  bumptious  or  immobile.  I  am  intellectually 
dishonest,  art-blind,  and  I  lack  humor. 

"Why  don't  you  stop  all  this?  "  she  retorts  trium 
phantly. 

221 


222  DARKWATER 

You  will  not  let  us. 

"  There  you  go,  again.     You  know  that  I " 

Wait!     I  answer.     Wait! 

I  arise  at  seven.  The  milkman  has  neglected  me. 
He  pays  little  attention  to  colored  districts.  My  white 
neighbor  glares  elaborately.  I  walk  softly,  lest  I  dis 
turb  him.  The  children  jeer  as  I  pass  to  work.  The 
women  in  the  street  car  withdraw  their  skirts  or  pre 
fer  to  stand.  The  policeman  is  truculent.  The  ele 
vator  man  hates  to  serve  Negroes.  My  job  is  inse 
cure  because  the  white  union  wants  it  and  does  not 
want  me.  I  try  to  lunch,  but  no  place  near  will  serve 
me.  I  go  forty  blocks  to  Marshall's,  but  the  Com 
mittee  of  Fourteen  closes  Marshall's;  they  say  white 
women  frequent  it. 

"Do  all  eating  places  discriminate ?" 

No,  but  how  shall  I  know  which  do  not — except — 

I  hurry  home  through  crowds.  They  mutter  or  get 
angry.  I  go  to  a  mass-meeting.  They  stare.  I  go 
to  a  church.  "  We  don't  admit  niggers!  " 

Or  perhaps  I  leave  the  beaten  track.  I  seek  new 
work.  "  Our  employees  would  not  work  with  you; 
our  customers  would  object." 

I  ask  to  help  in  social  uplift. 

"  Why — er — we  will  write  you." 

I  enter  the  free  field  of  science.  Every  laboratory 
door  is  closed  and  no  endowments  are  available. 

I  seek  the  universal  mistress,  Art;  the  studio  door 
is  locked. 

I  write  literature.  "  We  cannot  publish  stories  of 
colored  folks  of  that  type."  It's  the  only  type  I  know. 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  223 

This  is  my  life.  It  makes  me  idiotic.  It  gives  me 
artificial  problems.  I  hesitate,  I  rush,  I  waver.  In 
fine, — I  am  sensitive ! 

My  pale  friend  looks  at  me  with  disbelief  and  curl 
ing  tongue. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  sit  there  and  tell  me  that  this 
is  what  happens  to  you  each  day  ?  " 

Certainly  not,  I  answer  low. 

"  Then  you  only  fear  it  will  happen  ?  " 

I  fear! 

"  Well,  haven't  you  the  courage  to  rise  above  a — 
almost  a  craven  fear?" 

Quite — quite  craven  is  my  fear,  I  admit;  but  the 
terrible  thing  is — these  things  do  happen! 

"  But  you  just  said " 

They  do  happen.  Not  all  each  day, — surely  not. 
But  now  and  then — now  seldom,  now,  sudden;  now 
after  a  week,  now  in  a  chain  of  awful  minutes;  not 
everywhere,  but  anywhere — in  Boston,  in  Atlanta. 
That's  the  hell  of  it.  Imagine  spending  your  life  look 
ing  for  insults  or  for  hiding  places  from  them — 
shrinking  (instinctively  and  despite  desperate  bolster- 
ings  of  courage)  from  blows  that  are  not  always  but 
ever;  not  each  day,  but  each  week,  each  month,  each 
year.  Just,  perhaps,  as  you  have  choked  back  the 
craven  fear  and  cried,  "  I  am  and  will  be  the  master  of 
my " 

"  No  more  tickets  downstairs ;  here's  one  to  the 
smoking  gallery." 

You   hesitate.      You   beat    back    your   suspicions. 


224  DARKWATER 

After  all,  a  cigarette  with  Charlie  Chaplin — then  a 
white  man  pushes  by — 

"  Three  in  the  orchestra." 

"  Yes,  sir."     And  in  he  goes. 

Suddenly  your  heart  chills.  You  turn  yourself 
away  toward  the  golden  twinkle  of  the  purple  night 
and  hesitate  again.  What's  the  use?  Why  not  al 
ways  yield — always  take  what's  offered, — always  bow 
to  force,  whether  of  cannon  or  dislike?  Then  the 
great  fear  surges  in  your  soul,  the  real  fear — the  fear 
beside  which  other  fears  are  vain  imaginings;  the 
fear  lest  right  there  and  then  you  are  losing  your  own 
soul;  that  you  are  losing  your  own  soul  and  the  soul 
of  a  people;  that  millions  of  unborn  children,  black 
and  gold  and  mauve,  are  being  there  and  then  de 
spoiled  by  you  because  you  are  a  coward  and  dare  not 
fight! 

Suddenly  that  silly  orchestra  seat  and  the  cavorting 
of  a  comedian  with  funny  feet  become  matters  of 
life,  death,  and  immortality;  you  grasp  the  pillars  of 
the  universe  and  strain  as  you  sway  back  to  that  be- 
frilled  ticket  girl.  You  grip  your  soul  for  riot  and 
murder.  You  choke  and  sputter,  and  she  seeing  that 
you  are  about  to  make  a  "  fuss  "  obeys  her  orders  and 
throws  the  tickets  at  you  in  contempt.  Then  you  slink 
to  your  seat  and  crouch  in  the  darkness  before  the 
film,  with  every  tissue  burning!  The  miserable  wave 
of  reaction  engulfs  you.  To  think  of  compelling  pup 
pies  to  take  your  hard-earned  money;  fattening  hogs 
to  hate  you  and  yours;  forcing  your  way  among 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  225 

cheap  and  tawdry  idiots — God!     What  a  night  of 
pleasure ! 

Here,  then,  is  beauty  and  ugliness,  a  wide  vision 
of  world-sacrifice,  a  fierce  gleam  of  world-hate. 
Which  is  life  and  what  is  death  and  how  shall  we 
face  so  tantalizing  a  contradiction?  Any  explanation 
must  necessarily  be  subtle  and  involved.  No  pert  and 
easy  word  of  encouragement,  no  merely  dark  despair, 
can  lay  hold  of  the  roots  of  these  things.  And  first 
and  before  all,  we  cannot  forget  that  this  world  is 
beautiful.  Grant  all  its  ugliness  and  sin — the  petty, 
horrible  snarl  of  its  putrid  threads,  which  few  have 
seen  more  near  or  more  often  than  I — notwithstanding 
all  this,  the  beauty  of  this  world  is  not  to  be 
denied. 

Casting  my  eyes  about  I  dare  not  let  them  rest  on 
the  beauty  of  Love  and  Friend,  for  even  if  my  tongue 
were  cunning  enough  to  sing  this,  the  revelation  of 
reality  here  is  too  sacred  and  the  fancy  too  untrue. 
Of  one  world-beauty  alone  may  we  at  once  be  brutally 
frank  and  that  is  the  glory  of  physical  nature;  this, 
though  the  least  of  beauties,  is  divine! 

And  so,  too,  there  are  depths  of  human  degradation 
which  it  is  not  fair  for  us  to  probe.  With  all  their 
horrible  prevalence,  we  cannot  call  them  natural.  But 
may  we  not  compare  the  least  of  the  world's  beauty 
with  the  least  of  its  ugliness — not  murder,  starvation, 
and  rapine,  with  love  and  friendship  and  creation — 
but  the  glory  of  sea  and  sky  and  city,  with  the  little 
hatefulnesses  and  thoughtlessnesses  of  race  prejudice, 


226  DARKWATER 

that  out  of  such  juxtaposition  we  may,  perhaps,  de 
duce  some  rule  of  beauty  and  life — or  death? 

There  mountains  hurl  themselves  against  the  stars 
and  at  their  feet  lie  black  and  leaden  seas.  Above 
float  clouds — white,  gray,  and  inken,  while  the  clear, 
impalpable  air  springs  and  sparkles  like  new  wine. 
Last  night  we  floated  on  the  calm  bosom  of  the  sea 
in  the  southernmost  haven  of  Mount  Desert.  The 
water  flamed  and  sparkled.  The  sun  had  gone,  but 
above  the  crooked  back  of  cumulus  clouds,  dark  and 
pink  with  radiance,  and  on  the  other  sky  aloft  to  the 
eastward  piled  the  gorgeous-curtained  mists  of  even 
ing.  The  radiance  faded  and  a  shadowy  velvet  veiled 
the  mountains,  a  humid  depth  of  gloom  behind  which 
lurked  all  the  mysteries  of  life  and  death,  while  above, 
the  clouds  hung  ashen  and  dull;  lights  twinkled  and 
flashed  along  the  shore,  boats  glided  in  the  twilight, 
and  the  little  puffing  of  motors  droned  away.  Then 
was  the  hour  to  talk  of  life  and  the  meaning  of  life, 
while  above  gleamed  silently,  suddenly,  star  on  star. 

Bar  Harbor  lies  beneath  a  mighty  mountain,  a  great, 
bare,  black  mountain  that  sleeps  above  the  town;  but 
as  you  leave,  it  rises  suddenly,  threateningly,  until  far 
away  on  Frenchman's  Bay  it  looms  above  the  town 
in  withering  vastness,  as  if  to  call  all  that  little  world 
petty  save  itself.  Beneath  the  cool,  wide  stare  of 
that  great  mountain,  men  cannot  live  as  giddily  as  in 
some  lesser  summer's  playground.  Before  the  un 
veiled  face  of  nature,  as  it  lies  naked  on  the  Maine 
coast,  rises  a  certain  human  awe. 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  227 

God  molded  his  world  largely  and  mightily  off  this 
marvelous  coast  and  meant  that  in  the  tired  days  of 
life  men  should  come  and  worship  here  and  renew 
their  spirit.  This  I  have  done  and  turning  I  go  to 
work  again.  As  we  go,  ever  the  mountains  of  Mount 
Desert  rise  and  greet  us  on  our  going — somber,  rock- 
ribbed  and  silent,  looking  unmoved  on  the  moving 
world,  yet  conscious  of  their  everlasting  strength. 

About  us  beats  the  sea — the  sail-flecked,  restless 
sea,  humming  its  tune  about  our  flying  keel,  unmindful 
of  the  voices  of  men.  The  land  sinks  to  meadows, 
black  pine  forests,  with  here  and  there  a  blue  and 
wistful  mountain.  Then  there  are  islands — bold  rocks 
above  the  sea,  curled  meadows;  through  and  about 
them  roll  ships,  weather-beaten  and  patched  of  sail, 
strong-hulled  and  smoking,  light  gray  and  shining. 
All  the  colors  of  the  sea  lie  about  us — gray  and  yel 
lowing  greens  and  doubtful  blues,  blacks  not  quite 
black,  tinted  silvers  and  golds  and  dreaming  whites. 
Long  tongues  of  dark  and  golden  land  lick  far  out 
into  the  tossing  waters,  and  the  white  gulls  sail  and 
scream  above  them.  It  is  a  mighty  coast — ground  out 
and  pounded,  scarred,  crushed,  and  carven  in  massive, 
frightful  lineaments.  Everywhere  stand  the  pines — 
the  little  dark  and  steadfast  pines  that  smile  not, 
neither  weep,  but  wait  and  wait.  Near  us  lie  isles 
of  flesh  and  blood,  white  cottages,  tiled  and  meadowed. 
Afar  lie  shadow-lands,  high  mist-hidden  hills,  moun 
tains  boldly  limned,  yet  shading  to  the  sky,  faint  and 
unreal. 

We  skirt  the  pine-clad  shores,  chary  of  men,  and 


228  DARKWATER 

know  how  bitterly  winter  kisses  these  lonely  shores 
to  fill  yon  row  of  beaked  ice  houses  that  creep  up  the 
hills.  We  are  sailing  due  westward  and  the  sun,  yet 
two  hours  high,  is  blazoning  a  fiery  glory  on  the 
sea  that  spreads  and  gleams  like  some  broad,  jeweled 
trail,  to  where  the  blue  and  distant  shadow-land  lifts 
its  carven  front  aloft,  leaving1,  as  it  gropes,  shades  of 
shadows  beyond. 

Why  do  not  those  who  are  scarred  in  the  world's 
battle  and  hurt  by  its  hardness  travel  to  these  places 
of  beauty  and  drown  themselves  in  the  utter  jOy  of 
life?  I  asked  this  once  sitting  in  a  Southern  home. 
Outside  the  spring  of  a  Georgia  February  was  luiring 
gold  to  the  bushes  and  languor  to  the  soft  air.  Around 
me  sat  color  in  human  flesh — brown  that  crimsoned 
readily;  dim  soft-yellow  that  escaped  description; 
cream-like  duskiness  that  shadowed  to  rich  tints  of 
autumn  leaves.  And  yet  a  suggested  journey  in  the 
world  brought  no  response. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  like  to  travel,"  said 
the  white  one. 

But  no,  the  thought  of  a  journey  seemed  to  depress 
them. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  "  Jim-Crow "  waiting-room  ? 
There  are  always  exceptions,  as  at  Greensboro — but 
usually  there  is  no  heat  in  winter  and  no  air  in  sum 
mer;  with  undisturbed  loafers  and  train  hands  and 
broken,  disreputable  settees;  to  buy  a  ticket  is  torture; 
you  stand  and  stand  and  wait  and  wait  until  every 
white  person  at  the  "  other  window  "  is  waited  on. 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  229 

Then   the   tired   agent  yells  across,   because  all  the 
tickets  and  money  are  over  there — 
"  What  d'ye  want  ?    What  ?    Where  ?  " 
The  agent  browbeats  and  contradicts  you,  hurries 
and  confuses  the  ignorant,  gives  many  persons  the 
wrong  change,  compels  some  to  purchase  their  tickets 
on  the  train  at  a  higher  price,  and  sends  you  and  me 
out  on  the  platform,  burning  with  indignation  and 
hatred ! 

The  "  Jim-Crow  "  car  is  up  next  the  baggage  car 
and  engine.  It  stops  out  beyond  the  covering  in  the 
rain  or-sun  or  dust.  Usually  there  is  no  step  to  help 
you  climb  on  and  often  the  car  is  a  smoker  cut  in  two 
and  you  must  pass  through  the  white  smokers  or  else 
they  pass  through  your  part,  with  swagger  and  noise 
and  stares.  Your  compartment  is  a  half  or  a  quarter 
or  an  eighth  of  the  oldest  car  in  service  on  the  road. 
Unless  it  happens  to  be  a  through  express,  the  plush  is 
caked  with  dirt,  the  floor  is  grimy,  and  the  windows 
dirty.  An  impertinent  white  newsboy  occupies  two 
seats  at  the  end  of  the  car  and  importunes  you  to  the 
point  of  rage  to  buy  cheap  candy,  Coco-Cola,  and 
worthless,  if  not  vulgar,  books.  He  yells  and  swag 
gers,  while  a  continued  stream  of  white  men  saunters 
back  and  forth  from  the  smoker  to  buy  and  hear. 
The  white  train  crew  from  the  baggage  car  uses  the 
"  Jim-Crow  "  to  lounge  in  and  perform  their  toilet. 
The  conductor  appropriates  two  seats  for  himself  and 
his  papers  and  yells  gruffly  for  your  tickets  before  the 
train  has  scarcely  started.  It  is  best  not  to  ask  him 
for  information  even  in  the  gentlest  tones.  His  in- 


230  DARKWATER 

formation  is  for  white  persons  chiefly.  It  is  difficult 
to  get  lunch  or  clean  water.  Lunch  rooms  either 
don't  serve  niggers  or  serve  them  at  some  dirty  and 
ill-attended  hole  in  the  wall.  As  for  toilet  rooms, — 
don't!  If  you  have  to  change  cars,  be  wary  of  junc 
tions  which  are  usually  without  accommodation  and 
filled  with  quarrelsome  white  persons  who  hate  a 
"  darky  dressed  up."  You  are  apt  to  have  the  com 
pany  of  a  sheriff  and  a  couple  of  meek  or  sullen  black 
prisoners  on  part  of  your  way  and  dirty  colored  sec 
tion  hands  will  pour  in  toward  night  and  drive  you 
to  the  smallest  corner. 

"  No,"  said  the  little  lady  in  the  corner  (she  looked 
like  an  ivory  cameo  and  her  dress  flowed  on  her  like 
a  caress),  "we  don't  travel  much." 

Pessimism  is  cowardice.  The  man  who  cannot 
frankly  acknowledge  the  "  Jim-Crow  "  car  as  a  fact 
and  yet  live  and  hope  is  simply  afraid  either  of  him 
self  or  of  the  world.  There  is  not  in  the  world  a 
more  disgraceful  denial  of  human  brotherhood  than 
the  "Jim-Crow"  car  of  the  southern  United  States; 
but,  too,  just  as  true,  there  is  nothing  more  beautiful 
in  the  universe  than  sunset  and  moonlight  on  Montego 
Bay  in  far  Jamaica.  And  both  things  are  true  and 
both  belong  to  this  our  world,  and  neither  can  be 
denied. 

The  sun,  prepared  to  cross  that  awful  border  which 
men  call  Night  and  Death,  marshals  his  hosts.  I 
seem  to  see  the  spears  of  mighty  horsemen  flash 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  231 

golden  in  the  light;  empurpled  banners  flame  afar,  and 
the  low  thunder  of  marching  hosts  thrills  with  the 
thunder  of  the  sea.  Athwart  his  own  path,  screen 
ing  a  face  of  fire,  he  throws  cloud  masses,  masking 
his  trained  guns.  And  then  the  miracle  is  done.  The 
host  passes  with  roar  too  vast  for  human  ear  and  the 
sun  is  set,  leaving  the  frightened  moon  and  blinded 
stars. 

In  the  dusk  the  green-gold  palms  turn  their  star- 
like  faces  and  stretch  their  fan-like  fingers,  lifting 
themselves  proudly,  lest  any  lordly  leaf  should  know 
the  taint  of  earth. 

Out  from  the  isle  the  serpent  hill  thrusts  its  great 
length  around  the  bay,  shouldering  back  the  waters 
and  the  shadows.  Ghost  rains  sweep  down,  smearing 
his  rugged  sides,  yet  on  he  writhes,  undulant  with 
pine  and  palm,  gleaming  until  his  low,  sharp  head  and 
lambent  tongue,  grown  gray  and  pale  and  silver  in 
the  dying  day,  kisses  the  molten  gold  of  the  golden 
sea. 

Then  comes  the  moon.  Like  fireflies  nesting  in  the 
hand  of  God  gleams  the  city,  dim-swathed  by  fairy 
palms.  A  long,  thin  thumb,  mist-mighty,  points 
shadowy  to  the  Spanish  Main,  while  through  the 
fingers  foam  the  Seven  Seas.  Above  the  calm  and 
gold-green  moon,  beneath  the  wind-wet  earth;  and 
here,  alone,  my  soul  enchained,  enchanted! 

From  such  heights  of  holiness  men  turn  to  master 
the  world.  All  the  pettiness  of  life  drops  away  and 
it  becomes  a  great  battle  before  the  Lord.  His  trum- 


232  DARKWATER 

pet, — where  does  it  sound  and  whither?  I  go.  I 
saw  Montego  Bay  at  the  beginning  of  the  World 
War.  The  cry  for  service  as  high  as  heaven,  as  wide 
as  human  feeling,  seemed  filling  the  earth.  What 
were  petty  slights,  silly  insults,  paltry  problems,  beside 
this  call  to  do  and  dare  and  die?  We  black  folk 
offered  our  services  to  fight.  What  happened  ?  Most 
Americans  have  forgotten  the  extraordinary  series  of 
events  which  worked  the  feelings  of  black  America  to 
fever  heat. 

First  was  the  refusal  to  accept  Negro  volunteers  for 
the  army,  except  in  the  four  black  regiments  already 
established.  While  the  nation  was  combing  the  coun 
try  for  volunteers  for  the  regular  army,  it  would  not 
let  the  American  Negro  furnish  even  his  proportionate 
quota  of  regular  soldiers.  This  led  to  some  grim 
bantering  among  Negroes : 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  volunteer  ?  "  asked  many. 
"  Why  should  you  fight  for  this  country  ?  " 

Before  we  had  chance  to  reply  to  this,  there  came 
the  army  draft  bill  and  the  proposal  by  Vardaman 
and  his  ilk  to  except  Negroes.  We  protested  to 
Washington  in  various  ways,  and  while  we  were  in 
sisting  that  colored  men  should  be  drafted  just  as 
other  citizens,  the  bill  went  through  with  two  little 
"  jokers." 

First,  it  provided  that  Negroes  should  be  drafted, 
but  trained  in  "separate"  units;  and,  secondly,  it 
somewhat  ambiguously  permitted  men  to  be  drafted 
for  "  labor." 

A  wave  of  fear  and  unrest  spread  among  Negroes 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  233 

and  while  we  were  looking  at  both  these  provisions 
askance,  suddenly  we  received  the  draft  registration 
blank.  It  directed  persons  "  of  African  descent " 
to  "  tear  off  the  corner !  "  Probably  never  before  in 
the  history  of  the  United  States  has  a  portion  of 
the  citizens  been  so  openly  and  crassly  discriminated 
against  by  action  of  the  general  government.  It  was 
disheartening,  and  on  top  of  it  came  the  celebrated 
"  German  plots."  It  was  alleged  in  various  parts  of 
the  country  with  singular  unanimity  that  Germans 
were  working  among  the  Negroes,  and  it  was  further 
intimated  that  this  would  make  the  Negroes  too  dan 
gerous  an  element  to  trust  with  guns.  To  us,  of  course, 
it  looked  as  though  the  discovery  and  the  proposition 
came  from  the  same  thinly-veiled  sources. 

Considering  carefully  this  series  of  happenings  the 
American  Negro  sensed  an  approaching  crisis  and 
faced  a  puzzling  dilemma.  Here  was  evidently  pre 
paring  fertile  ground  for  the  spread  of  disloyalty  and 
resentment  among  the  black  masses,  as  they  were 
forced  to  choose  apparently  between  forced  labor  or  a 
"  Jim-Crow "  draft.  Manifestly  when  a  minority 
group  is  thus  segregated  and  forced  out  of  the  nation, 
they  can  in  reason  do  but  one  thing — take  advantage 
of  the  disadvantage.  In  this  case  we  demanded 
colored  officers  for  the  colored  troops. 

General  Wood  was  early  approached  and  asked  to 
admit  suitable  candidates  to  Plattsburg.  He  refused. 
We  thereupon  pressed  the  government  for  a  "sepa 
rate"  camp  for  the  training  of  Negro  officers.  Not 
only  did  the  War  Department  hesitate  at  this  request, 


234  DARKWATER 

but  strong  opposition  arose  among  colored  people 
themselves.  They  said  we  were  going  too  far.  "  We 
will  obey  the  law,  but  to  ask  for  voluntary  segregation 
is  to  insult  ourselves/'  But  strong,  sober  second 
thought  came  to  our  rescue.  We  said  to  our  protest 
ing  brothers :  "  We  face  a  condition,  not  a  theory. 
There  is  not  the  slightest  chance  of  our  being  ad 
mitted  to  white  camps;  therefore,  it  is  either  a  case  of 
a  '  Jim-Crow '  officers'  training  camp  or  no  colored 
officers.  Of  the  two  things  no  colored  officers  would 
be  the  greater  calamity." 

Thus  we  gradually  made  up  our  minds.  But  the 
War  Department  still  hesitated.  It  was  besieged,  and 
when  it  presented  its  final  argument,  "We  have  no 
place  for  such  a  camp,"  the  trustees  of  Howard  Uni 
versity  said :  "  Take  our  campus."  Eventually  twelve 
hundred  colored  cadets  were  assembled  at  Fort  Des 
Moines  for  officers'  training. 

The  city  of  Des  Moines  promptly  protested,  but  it 
finally  changed  its  mind.  Des  Moines  never  before 
had  seen  such  a  class  of  colored  men.  They  rapidly 
became  popular  with  all  classes  and  many  encomiums 
were  passed  upon  their  conduct.  Their  commanding 
colonel  pronounced  their  work  first  class  and  de 
clared  that  they  presented  excellent  material  for 
officers. 

Meantime,  with  one  accord,  the  thought  of  the 
colored  people  turned  toward  Colonel  Young,  their 
highest  officer  in  the  regular  army.  Charles  Young 
is  a  heroic  figure.  He  is  the  typical  soldier, — silent, 
uncomplaining,  brave,  and  efficient!  From  his  days 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  235 

at  West  Point  throughout  his  thirty  years  of  serv 
ice  he  has  taken  whatever  task  was  assigned  him 
and  performed  it  efficiently;  and  there  is  no  doubt 
but  that  the  army  has  been  almost  merciless  in  the 
requirements  which  it  has  put  upon  this  splendid 
officer.  He  came  through  all  with  flying  colors.  In 
Haiti,  in  Liberia,  in  western  camps,  in  the  Sequoia 
Forests  of  California,  and  finally  with  Pershing  in 
Mexico, — in  every  case  he  triumphed.  Just  at  the  time 
we  were  looking  to  the  United  States  government  to 
call  him  to  head  the  colored  officers'  training  at  Des 
Moines,  he  was  retired  from  the  army,  because  of 
"  high  blood  pressure !  "  There  is  no  disputing  army 
surgeons  and  their  judgment  in  this  case  may  be  justi 
fied,  but  coming  at  the  time  it  did,  nearly  every  Negro 
in  the  United  States  believed  that  the  "  high  blood 
pressure "  that  retired  Colonel  Young  was  in  the 
prejudiced  heads  of  the  Southern  oligarchy  who  were 
determined  that  no  American  Negro  should  ever  wear 
the  stars  of  a  General. 

To  say  that  Negroes  of  the  United  States  were  dis 
heartened  at  the  retirement  of  Colonel  Young  is  to 
put  it  mildly, — but  there  was  more  trouble.  The  pro 
vision  that  Negroes  must  be  trained  separately  looked 
simple  and  was  simple  in  places  where  there  were  large 
Negro  contingents,  but  in  the  North  with  solitary 
Negroes  drafted  here  and  there  we  had  some  extra 
ordinary  developments.  Regiments  appeared  with  one 
Negro  where  the  Negro  had  to  be  separated  like  a 
pest  and  put  into  a  house  or  even  a  village  by  himself 
while  the  commander  frantically  telegraphed  to  Wash- 


236  DARKWATER 

ington.  Small  wonder  that  one  poor  fellow  in  Ohio 
solved  the  problem  by  cutting  his  throat.  The  whole 
process  of  drafting  Negroes  had  to  be  held  up  until 
the  government  could  find  methods  and  places  for 
assembling  them. 

Then  came  Houston.  In  a  moment  the  nation  for 
got  the  whole  record  of  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
regiments  in  the  United  States  Army  and  its  splen 
did  service  in  the  Indian  Wars  and  in  the  Philippines. 
It  was  the  first  regiment  mobilized  in  the  Spanish- 
American  War  and  it  was  the  regiment  that  volun 
teered  to  a  man  to  clean  up  the  yellow  fever  camps 
when  others  hesitated.  It  was  one  of  the  regiments 
to  which  Pershing  said  in  December: 

"  Men,  I  am  authorized  by  Congress  to  tell  you  all 
that  our  people  back  in  the  States  are  mightily  glad 
and  proud  at  the  way  the  soldiers  have  conducted 
themselves  while  in  Mexico,  and  I,  General  Pershing, 
can  say  with  pride  that  a  finer  body  of  men  never 
stood  under  the  flag  of  our  nation  than  we  find  here 
tonight." 

The  nation,  also,  forgot  the  deep  resentment  mixed 
with  the  pale  ghost  of  fear  which  Negro  soldiers  call 
up  in  the  breasts  of  the  white  South.  It  is  not  so 
much  that  they  fear  that  the  Negro  will  strike  if  he 
gets  a  chance,  but  rather  that  they  assume  with  curi 
ous  unanimity  that  he  has  reason  to  strike,  that  any 
other  persons  in  his  circumstances  or  treated  as  he  is 
would  rebel.  Instead  of  seeking  to  relieve  the  cause 
of  such  a  possible  feeling,  most  of  them  strain  every 
effort  to  bottle  up  the  black  man's  resentment.  Is  it 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  237 

inconceivable  that  now  and  then  it  bursts  all  bounds, 
as  at  Brownsville  and  Houston? 

So  in  the  midst  of  this  mental  turmoil  came  Hous 
ton  and  East  St.  Louis.  At  Houston  black  soldiers, 
goaded  and  insulted,  suddenly  went  wild  and  "  shot 
up  "  the  town.  At  East  St.  Louis  white  strikers  on 
war  work  killed  and  mobbed  Negro  workingmen,  and 
as  a  result  19  colored  soldiers  were  hanged  and  51 
imprisoned  for  life  for  killing  17  whites  at  Hous 
ton,  while  for  killing  125  Negroes  in  East  St.  Louis, 
20  white  men  were  imprisoned,  none  for  more  than 
15  years,  and  10  colored  men  with  them. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  took  a  great  journey  in  this 
land  to  three  of  the  ends  of  our  world  and  over  seven 
thousand  mighty  miles.  I  saw  the  grim  desert  and 
the  high  ramparts  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Three 
days  I  flew  from  the  silver  beauty  of  Seattle  to  the 
somber  whirl  of  Kansas  City.  Three  days  I  flew 
from  the  brute  might  of  Chicago  to  the  air  of  the 
Angels  in  California,  scented  with  golden  flowers, 
where  the  homes  of  men  crouch  low  and  loving  on 
the  good,  broad  earth,  as  though  they  were  kissing 
her  blossoms.  Three  days  I  flew  through  the  em 
pire  of  Texas,  but  all  these  shall  be  tales  untold,  for 
in  all  this  journey  I  saw  but  one  thing  that  lived 
and  will  live  eternal  in  my  soul, — the  Grand  Canon. 

It  is  a  sudden  void  in  the  bosom  of  earth,  down  to 
its  entrails — a  wound  where  the  dull  titanic  knife  has 
turned  and  twisted  in  the  hole,  leaving  its  edges  livid, 
scarred,  jagged,  and  pulsing  over  the  white,  and  red, 


238  DARKWATER 

and  purple  of  its  mighty  flesh,  while  down  below — 
down,  down  below,  in  black  and  severed  vein,  boils 
the  dull  and  sullen  flood  of  the  Colorado. 

It  is  awful.  There  can  be  nothing  like  it.  It  is  the 
earth  and  sky  gone  stark  and  raving  mad.  The  moun 
tains  up-twirled,  disbodied  and  inverted,  stand  on  their 
peaks  and  throw  their  bowels  to  the  sky.  Their 
earth  is  air;  their  ether  blood-red  rock  engreened. 
You  stand  upon  their  roots  and  fall  into  their  pin 
nacles,  a  mighty  mile. 

Behold  this  mauve  and  purple  mocking  of  time  and 
space!  See  yonder  peak!  No  human  foot  has  trod 
it.  Into  that  blue  shadow  only  the  eye  of  God  has 
looked.  Listen  to  the  accents  of  that  gorge  which 
mutters:  "Before  Abraham  was,  I  am."  Is  yonder 
wall  a  hedge  of  black  or  is  it  the  rampart  between 
heaven  and  hell?  I  see  greens, — is  it  moss  or  giant 
pines?  I  see  specks  that  may  be  boulders.  Ever  the 
winds  sigh  and  drop  into  those  sun-swept  silences. 
Ever  the  gorge  lies  motionless,  unmoved,  until  I  fear. 
It  is  a  grim  thing,  unholy,  terrible!  It  is  human — 
some  mighty  drama  unseen,  unheard,  is  playing  there 
its  tragedies  or  mocking  comedy,  and  the  laugh  of 
endless  years  is  shrieking  onward  from  peak  to  peak, 
unheard,  unechoed,  and  unknown. 

One  throws  a  rock  into  the  abyss.  It  gives  back 
no  sound.  It  falls  on  silence — the  voice  of  its  thunders 
cannot  reach  so  far.  It  is  not — it  cannot  be  a  mere, 
inert,  unfeeling,  brute  fact — its  grandeur  is  too  serene 
— its  beauty  too  divine!  It  is  not  red,  and  blue,  and 
green,  but,  ah!  the  shadows  and  the  shades  of  all  the 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  239 

world,  glad  colorings  touched  with  a  hesitant  spiritual 
delicacy.  What  does  it  mean — what  does  it  mean? 
Tell  me,  black  and  boiling  water  I 

It  is  not  real.  It  is  but  shadows.  The  shading  of 
eternity.  Last  night  yonder  tesselated  palace  was 
gloom — dark,  brooding  thought  and  sin,  while  hither 
rose  the  mountains  of  the  sun,  golden,  blazing,  en 
sanguined.  It  was  a  dream.  This  blue  and  brilliant 
morning  shows  all  those  burning  peaks  alight, 
while  here,  shapeless,  mistful,  brood  the  shadowed 
towers. 

I  have  been  down  into  the  entrails  of  earth — down, 
down  by  straight  and  staring  cliffs — down  by  sound 
ing  waters  and  sun-strewn  meadows;  down  by  green 
pastures  and  still  waters,  by  great,  steep  chasms- 
down  by  the  gnarled  and  twisted  fists  of  God  to  the 
deep,  sad  moan  of  the  yellow  river  that  did  this  thing 
of  wonder, — a  little  winding  river  with  death  in  its 
depth  and  a  crown  of  glory  in  its  flying  hair. 

I  have  seen  what  eye  of  man  was  never  meant  to 
see.  I  have  profaned  the  sanctuary.  I  have  looked 
upon  the  dread  disrobing  of  the  Night,  and  yet  I  live. 
Ere  I  hid  my  head  she  was  standing  in  her  cavern 
halls,  glowing  coldly  westward — her  feet  were  black 
ness  :  her  robes,  empurpled,  flowed  mistily  from 
shoulder  down  in  formless  folds  of  folds;  her  head, 
pine-crowned,  was  set  with  jeweled  stars.  I  turned 
away  and  dreamed — the  canon, — the  awful,  its  depths 
called;  its  heights  shuddered.  Then  suddenly  I  arose 
and  looked.  Her  robes  were  falling.  At  dim-dawn 
they  hung  purplish-green  and  black.  Slowly  she 


240  DARKWATER 

stripped  them  from  her  gaunt  and  shapely  limbs — 
her  cold,  gray  garments  shot  with  shadows  stood  re 
vealed.  Down  dropped  the  black-blue  robes,  gray- 
pearled,  and  slipped,  leaving  a  filmy,  silken,  misty 
thing,  and  underneath  I  glimpsed  her  limbs  of  utter 
light. 

My  God!  For  what  am  I  thankful  this  night? 
For  nothing.  For  nothing  but  the  most  common 
place  of  commonplaces;  a  table  of  gentlewomen  and 
gentlemen — soft-spoken,  sweet-tempered,  full  of  hu 
man  sympathy,  who  made  me,  a  stranger,  one  of 
them.  Ours  was  a  fellowship  of  common  books, 
common  knowledge,  mighty  aims.  We  could  laugh 
and  joke  and  think  as  friends — and  the  Thing — the 
hateful,  murderous,  dirty  Thing  which  in  America 
we  call  "  Nigger-hatred  "  was  not  only  not  there — 
it  could  not  even  be  understood.  It  was  a  curious 
monstrosity  at  which  civilized  folk  laughed  or  looked 
puzzled.  There  was  no  elegant  and  elaborate  con 
descension  of — "  We  once  had  a  colored  servant  " — 
"  My  father  was  an  Abolitionist  " — "  I've  always  been 
interested  in  your  people  " — there  was  only  the  com 
munity  of  kindred  souls,  the  delicate  reverence  for 
the  Thought  that  led,  the  quick  deference  to  the  guest. 
You  left  in  quiet  regret,  knowing  that  they  were  not 
discussing  you  behind  your  back  with  lies  and  license. 
God!  It  was  simply  human  decency  and  I  had  to 
be  thankful  for  it  because  I  am  an  American  Negro, 
and  white  America,  with  saving  exceptions,  is  cruel 
to  everything  that  has  black  blood — and  this  was 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  241 

Paris,  in  the  years  of  salvation,  1919.    Fellow  blacks, 
we  must  join  the  democracy  of  Europe. 

Toul!  Dim  through  the  deepening  dark  of  early 
afternoon,  I  saw  its  towers  gloom  dusky  toward  the 
murk  of  heaven.  We  wound  in  misty  roads  and 
dropped  upon  the  city  through  the  great  throats  of 
its  walled  bastions.  There  lay  France — a  strange, 
unknown,  unfamiliar  France.  The  city  was  dispos 
sessed.  Through  its  streets — its  narrow,  winding 
streets,  old  and  low  and  dark,  carven  and  quaint, — 
poured  thousands  upon  thousands  of  strange  feet  of 
khaki-clad  foreigners,  and  the  echoes  threw  back  awk 
ward  syllables  that  were  never  French.  Here  was 
France  beaten  to  her  knees  yet  fighting  as  never  na 
tion  fought  before,  calling  in  her  death  agony  across 
the  seas  till  her  help  came  and  with  all  its  strut  and 
careless  braggadocio  saved  the  worthiest  nation  of 
the  world  from  the  wickedest  fate  ever  plotted  by 
Fools. 

Tim  Brimm  was  playing  by  the  town-pump.  Tim 
Brimm  and  the  bugles  of  Harlem  blared  in  the  little 
streets  of  Maron  in  far  Lorraine.  The  tiny  streets 
were  seas  of  mud.  Dank  mist  and  rain  sifted  through 
the  cold  air  above  the  blue  Moselle.  Soldiers — sol 
diers  everywhere — black  soldiers,  boys  of  Washing 
ton,  Alabama,  Philadelphia,  Mississippi.  Wild  and 
sweet  and  wooing  leapt  the  strains  upon  the  air. 
French  children  gazed  in  wonder — women  left  their 
washing.  Up  in  the  window  stood  a  black  Major, 


242  DARKWATER 

a  Captain,  a  Teacher,  and  I — with  tears  behind  our 
smiling  eyes.  Tim  Brimm  was  playing  by  the  town- 
pump. 

The  audience  was  framed  in  smoke.  It  rose  ghost 
like  out  of  memories — bitter  memories  of  the  officer 
near  dead  of  pneumonia  whose  pain  was  lighted  up 
by  the  nurses  waiting  to  know  whether  he  must  be 
"  Jim-Crowed  "  with  privates  or  not.  Memories  of 
that  great  last  morning  when  the  thunders  of  hell 
called  the  Ninety-second  to  its  last  drive.  Memories 
of  bitter  humiliations,  determined  triumphs,  great  vic 
tories,  and  bugle-calls  that  sounded  from  earth  to 
heaven.  Like  memories  framed  in  the  breath  of  God, 
my  audience  peered  in  upon  me — good,  brown  faces 
with  great,  kind,  beautiful  eyes — black  soldiers  of 
America  rescuing  beloved  France — and  the  words 
came  in  praise  and  benediction  there  in  the  "  Y," 
with  its  little  stock  of  cigarettes  and  candies  and  its 
rusty  wood  stove. 

"  Alors"  said  Madame,  ff  quatre  sont  marts" — 
four  dead — four  tall,  strong  sons  dead  for  France — 
sons  like  the  sweet  and  blue-eyed  daughter  who  was 
hiding  her  brave  smile  in  the  dusk.  It  was  a  tiny 
stone  house  whose  front  window  lipped  the  passing 
sidewalk  where  ever  tramped  the  feet  of  black  sol 
diers  marching  home.  There  was  a  cavernous  ward 
robe,  a  great  fireplace  invaded  by  a  new  and  jaunty 
iron  stove.  Vast,  thick  piles  of  bedding  rose  in  yonder 
corner.  Without  was  the  crowded  kitchen  and  up 
a  half -stair  was  our  bedroom  that  gave  upon  a  tiny 
court  with  arched  stone  staircase  and  one  green  tree. 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  243 

We  were  a  touching  family  party  held  together  by  a 
great  sorrow  and  a  great  joy.  How  we  laughed  over 
the  salad  that  got  brandy  instead  of  vinegar — how  we 
ate  the  golden  pile  of  fried  potatoes  and  how  we 
pored  over  the  post-card  from  the  Lieutenant  of 
the  Senegalese — dear  little  vale  of  crushed  and  risen 
France,  in  the  day  when  Negroes  went  "  over  the 
top  "  at  Pont-a-Mousson. 

Paris,  Paris  by  purple  fagade  of  the  opera,  the 
crowd  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  and  the  great 
swing  of  the  Champs  Elysees.  But  not  the  Paris 
the  world  knows.  Paris  with  its  soul  cut  to  the  core 
— feverish,  crowded,  nervous,  hurried;  full  of  uni 
forms  and  mourning  bands,  with  cafes  closed  at  9 130 
— no  sugar,  scarce  bread,  and  tears  so  interwined 
with  joy  that  there  is  scant  difference.  Paris  has 
been  dreaming  a  nightmare,  and  though  she  awakes, 
the  grim  terror  is  upon  her — it  lies  on  the  sand- 
closed  art  treasures  of  the  Louvre.  Only  the  flowers 
are  there,  always  the  flowers,  the  Roses  of  England 
and  the  Lilies  of  France. 


>  New  York!  Behind  the  Liberty  that  faces  free 
France  rise  the  white  cliffs  of  Manhattan,  tier  on  tier, 
with  a  curving  pinnacle,  towers  square  and  twin,  a 
giant  inkwell  daintily  stoppered,  an  ancient  pyramid 
enthroned;  beneath,  low  ramparts  wide  and  mighty; 
while  above,  faint-limned  against  the  turbulent  sky, 
looms  the  vast  grace  of  that  Cathedral  of  the  Pur- 


244  DARKWATER 

chased  and  Purchasing  Poor,  topping  the  world  and 
pointing  higher. 

Yonder  the  gray  cobwebs  of  the  Brooklyn  bridges 
leap  the  sea,  and  here  creep  the  argosies  from  all 
earth's  ends.  We  move  to  this  swift  home  on  dun 
and  swelling  waters  and  hear  as  we  come  the  heart 
beats  of  the  new  world. 

New  York  and  night  from  the  Brooklyn  Bridge: 
The  bees  and  fireflies  flit  and  twinkle  in  their  vast 
hives;  curved  clouds  like  the  breath  of  gods  hover 
between  the  towers  and  the  moon.  One  hears  the 
hiss  of  lightnings,  the  deep  thunder  of  human  things, 
and  a  fevered  breathing  as  of  some  attendant  and 
invincible  Powers.  The  glow  of  burning  millions 
melts  outward  into  dim  and  fairy  outlines  until  afar 
the  liquid  music  born  of  rushing  crowds  drips  like  a 
benediction  on  the  sea. 

New  York  and  morning :  the  sun  is  kissing  the  timid 
dew  in  Central  Park,  and  from  the  Fountain  of 
Plenty  one  looks  along  that  world  street,  Fifth  Ave 
nue,  and  walks  toward  town.  The  earth  lifts  and 
curves  graciously  down  from  the  older  mansions  of 
princes  to  the  newer  shops  of  luxury.  Egypt  and 
Abyssinia,  Paris  and  Damascus,  London  and  India 
caress  you  by  the  way;  churches  stand  aloof  while 
the  shops  swell  to  emporiums.  But  all  this  is  noth 
ing.  Everything  is  mankind.  Humanity  stands  and 
flies  and  walks  and  rolls  about — the  poor,  the  price 
less,  the  world-known  and  the  forgotten ;  child  and 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  245 

grandfather,  king  and  leman — the  pageant  of  the 
world  goes  by,  set  in  a  frame  of  stone  and  jewels, 
clothed  in  scarlet  and  rags.  Princes  Street  and  the 
Elysian  Fields,  the  Strand  and  the  Ringstrasse — these 
are  the  Ways  of  the  World  today. 

New  York  and  twilight,  there  where  the  Sixth 
Avenue  "  L "  rises  and  leaps  above  the  tenements 
into  the  free  air  at  noth  Street.  It  circles  like  a 
bird  with  heaven  and  St.  John's  above  and  earth  and 
the  sweet  green  and  gold  of  the  Park  beneath.  Be 
yond  lie  all  the  blue  mists  and  mysteries  of  distance; 
beneath,  the  city  rushes  and  crawls.  Behind  echo  all 
the  roar  and  war  and  care  and  maze  of  the  wide 
city  set  in  its  sullen  darkening  walls,  flashing  weird 
and  crimson  farewells.  Out  at  the  sides  the  stirs 
twinkle. 

Again  New  York  and  Night  and  Harlem.  A  dark 
city  of  fifty  thousand  rises  like  magic  from  the  earth. 
Gone  is  the  white  world,  the  pale  lips,  the  lank  hair; 
gone  is  the  West  and  North — the  East  and  South  is 
here  triumphant.  The  street  is  crowd  and  leisure 
and  laughter.  Everywhere  black  eyes,  black  and 
brown,  and  frizzled  hair  curled  and  sleek,  and  skins 
that  riot  with  luscious  color  and  deep,  burning  blood. 
Humanity  is  packed  dense  in  high  piles  of  close-knit 
homes  that  lie  in  layers  above  gray  shops  of  food 
and  clothes  and  drink,  with  here  and  there  a  moving- 
picture  show.  Orators  declaim  on  the  corners,  lovers 
lark  in  the  streets,  gamblers  glide  by  the  saloons, 


246  DARKWATER 

workers  lounge  wearily  home.  Children  scream  and 
run  and  frolic,  and  all  is  good  and  human  and  beauti 
ful  and  ugly  and  evil,  even  as  Life  is  elsewhere. 

And  then — the  Veil.  It  drops  as  drops  the  night 
on  southern  seas — vast,  sudden,  unanswering.  There 
is  Hate  behind  it,  and  Cruelty  and  Tears.  As  one 
peers  through  its  intricate,  unfathomable  pattern  of 
ancient,  old,  old  design,  one  sees  blood  and  guilt 
and  misunderstanding.  And  yet  it  hangs  there,  this 
Veil,  between  Then  and  Now,  between  Pale  and  Col 
ored  and  Black  and  White — between  You  and  Me. 
Surely  it  is  a  thought-thing,  tenuous,  intangible;  yet 
just  as  surely  is  it  true  and  terrible  and  not  in  our 
little  day  may  you  and  I  lift  it.  We  may  feverishly 
unravel  its  edges  and  even  climb  slow  with  giant 
shears  to  where  its  ringed  and  gilded  top  nestles 
close  to  the  throne  of  God.  But  as  we  work  and 
climb  we  shall  see  through  streaming  eyes  and  hear 
with  aching  ears,  lynching  and  murder,  cheating  and 
despising,  degrading  and  lying,  so  flashed  and  fleshed 
through  this  vast  hanging  darkness  that  the  Doer 
never  sees  the  Deed  and  the  Victim  knows  not  the 
Victor  and  Each  hates  All  in  wild  and  bitter  ignorance. 
Listen,  O  Isles,  to  these  Voices  from  within  the  Veil, 
for  they  portray  the  most  human  hurt  of  the  Twentieth 
Cycle  of  that  poor  Jesus  who  was  called  the  Christ! 

There  is  something  in  the  nature  of  Beauty  that 
demands  an  end.  Ugliness  may  be  indefinite.  It 
may  trail  off  into  gray  endlessness.  But  Beauty  must 


OF  BEAUTY  AND  DEATH  247 

be  complete — whether  it  be  a  field  of  poppies  or  a 
great  life, — it  must  end,  and  the  End  is  part  and 
triumph  of  the  Beauty.  I  know  there  are  those  who 
envisage  a  beauty  eternal.  But  I  cannot.  I  can 
dream  of  great  and  never-ending  processions  of  beau 
tiful  things  and  visions  and  acts.  But  each  must  be 
complete  or  it  cannot  for  me  exist. 

On  the  other  hand,  Ugliness  to  me  is  eternal,  not 
in  the  essence  but  in  its  incompleteness;  but  its  eter 
nity  does  not  daunt  me,  for  its  eternal  un  fulfilment 
is  a  cause  of  joy.  There  is  in  it  nothing  new  or 
unexpected;  it  is  the  old  evil  stretching  out  and  ever, 
seeking  the  end  it  cannot  find;  it  may  coil  and  writhe 
and  recur  in  endless  battle  to  days  without  end,  but 
it  is  the  same  human  ill  and  bitter  hurt.  But  Beauty 
is  fulfilment.  It  satisfies.  It  is  always  new  and 
strange.  It  is  the  reasonable  thing.  Its  end  is  Death 
— the  sweet  silence  of  perfection,  the  calm  and  balance 
of  utter  music.  Therein  is  the  triumph  of  Beauty. 

So  strong  is  the  spell  of  beauty  that  there  are  those 
who,  contradicting  their  own  knowledge  and  experi 
ence,  try  to  say  that  all  is  beauty.  They  are  called 
optimists,  and  they  lie.  All  is  not  beauty.  Ugliness 
and  hate  and  ill  are  here  with  all  their  contradiction 
and  illogic;  they  will  always  be  here — perhaps,  God 
send,  with  lessened  volume  and  force,  but  here  and 
eternal,  while  beauty  triumphs  in  its  great  completion 
— Death.  We  cannot  conjure  the  end  of  all  ugliness 
in  eternal  beauty,  for  beauty  by  its  very  being  and 
definition  has  in  each  definition  its  ends  and  limits; 
but  while  beauty  lies  implicit  and  revealed  in  its  end, 


248  DARKWATER 

ugliness  writhes  on  in  darkness  forever.  So  the  ugli 
ness  of  continual  birth  fulfils  itself  and  conquers  glori 
ously  only  in  the  beautiful  end,  Death. 

At  last  to  us  all  comes  happiness,  there  in  the  Court 
of  Peace,  where  the  dead  lie  so  still  and  calm  and 
good.  If  we  were  not  dead  we  would  lie  and  listen 
to  the  flowers  grow.  We  would  hear  the  birds  sing 
and  see  how  the  rain  rises  and  blushes  and  burns 
and  pales  and  dies  in  beauty.  We  would  see  spring, 
summer,  and  the  red  riot  of  autumn,  and  then  in 
winter,  beneath  the  soft  white  snow,  sleep  and  dream 
of  dreams.  But  we  know  that  being  dead,  our 
Happiness  is  a  fine  and  finished  thing  and  that  ten,  a 
hundred,  and  a  thousand  years,  we  shall  lie  at  rest, 
unhurt  in  the  Court  of  Peace. 


The  Prayers  of  God 

Name  of  God's  Name ! 

Red  murder  reigns ; 

All  hell  is  loose  ; 

On  gold  autumnal  air 

Walk  grinning  devils,  barbed  and  hoofed; 

While  high  on  hills  of  hate, 

Black-blossomed,  crimson-sky'd, 

Thou  sittest,  dumb. 

Father  Almighty ! 

This  earth  is  mad! 

Palsied,  our  cunning  hands; 

Rotten,  our  gold ; 

Our  argosies  reel  and  stagger 

Over  empty  seas; 

All  the  long  aisles 

Of  Thy  Great  Temples,  God, 

Stink  with  the  entrails 

Of  our  souls. 

And  Thou  art  dumb. 

Above  the  thunder  of  Thy  Thunders,  Lord, 

Lightening  Thy  Lightnings, 

Rings  and  roars 

The  dark  damnation 

Of  this  hell  of  war.  f 

Red  piles  the  pulp  of  hearts  and  heads 

And  little  children's  hands. 

Allah! 

Elohim! 

Very  God  of  God! 

Death  is  here! 

249 


250  DARKWATER 

Dead  are  the  living ;  deep-dead  the  dead. 

Dying  are  earth's  unborn — 

The  babes'  wide  eyes  of  genius  and  of  joy, 

Poems  and  prayers,  sun-glows  and  earth-songs, 

Great-pictured  dreams, 

Enmarbled  phantasies, 

High  hymning  heavens — all 

In  this  dread  night 

Writhe  and  shriek  and  choke  and  die 

This  long  ghost-night — 

While  Thou  art  dumb. 

Have  mercy! 

Have  mercy  upon  us,  miserable  sinners! 

Stand  forth,  unveil  Thy  Face, 

Pour  down  the  light 

That  seethes  above  Thy  Throne, 

And  blaze  this  devil's  dance  to  darkness! 

Hear! 

Speak ! 

In  Christ's  Great  Name — 


I  hear! 

Forgive  me,  God! 

Above  the  thunder  I  hearkened  ; 

Beneath  the  silence,  now, — 

I  hear! 

(Wait,  God,  a  little  space. 

It  is  so  strange  to  talk  with  Thee— • 

Alone!) 

This  gold? 

I  took  it. 

Is  it  Thine? 

Forgive;  I  did  not  know. 


THE  PRAYERS  OF  GOD  251 

Blood?  Is  it  wet  with  blood? 
Tis  from  my  brother's  hands. 
(I  know;  his  hands  are  mine.) 
It  flowed  for  Thee,  O  Lord. 

War?    Not  so;  not  war — 

Dominion,  Lord,  and  over  black,  not  white ; 

Black,  brown,  and  fawn, 

And  not  Thy  Chosen  Brood,  O  God, 

We  murdered. 

To  build  Thy  Kingdom, 

To  drape  our  wives  and  little  ones, 

And  set  their  souls  a-glitter — 

For  this  we  killed  these  lesser  breeds 

And  civilized  their  dead, 

Raping  red  rubber,  diamonds,  cocoa,  gold  I 

For  this,  too,  once,  and  in  Thy  Name, 
I  lynched  a  Nigger — 

(He  raved  and  writhed, 

I  heard  him  cry, 

I  felt  the  life-light  leap  and  lie, 

I  saw  him  crackle  there,  on  high, 

I  watched  him  wither!) 

Thou? 
Thee? 
I  lynched  Thee?, 

Awake  me,  God!    I  sleep! 

What  was  that  awful  word  Thou  saidst? 

That  black  and  riven  thing — was  it  Thee? 

That  gasp — was  it  Thine? 

This  pain — is  it  Thine  ? 

Are,  then,  these  bullets  piercing  Thee? 

Have  all  the  wars  of  all  the  world, 


252  DARKWATER 

Down  all  dim  time,  drawn  blood  from  Thee? 

Have  all  the  lies  and  thefts  and  hates — 

Is  this  Thy  Crucifixion,  God, 

And  not  that  funny,  little  cross, 

With  vinegar  and  thorns? 

Is  this  Thy  kingdom  here,  not  there, 

This  stone  and  stucco  drift  of  dreams? 

Help! 

I  sense  that  low  and  awful  cry — 

Who  cries  ? 

Who  weeps? 

With  silent  sob  that  rends  and  tears — 

Can  God  sob? 

Who  prays  ? 

I  hear  strong  prayers  throng  by, 
Like  mighty  winds  on  dusky  moors — • 
Can  God  pray? 

Prayest  Thou,  Lord,  and  to  me? 

Thou  needest  me? 

Thou  needest  me? 

Thou  needest  me? 

Poor,  wounded  soul! 

Of  this  I  never  dreamed.    I  thought— 

Courage,  God, 
I  come! 


THE  COMET 

HE  stood  a  moment  on  the  steps  of  the  bank,  watching 
the  human  river  that  swirled  down  Broadway.  Few 
noticed  him.  Few  ever  noticed  him  save  in  a  way 
that  stung.  He  was  outside  the  world — "nothing!" 
as  he  said  bitterly.  Bits  of  the  words  of  the  walkers 
came  to  him. 

"The  comet?" 

"  The  comet " 

Everybody  was  talking  of  it.  Even  the  president, 
as  he  entered,  smiled  patronizingly  at  him,  and  asked : 

"  Well,  Jim,  are  you  scared  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  messenger  shortly. 

"  I  thought  we'd  journeyed  through  the  comet' s 
tail  once,"  broke  in  the  junior  clerk  affably. 

"Oh,  that  was  Halley's,"  said  the  president;  "this 
is  a  new  comet,  quite  a  stranger,  they  say — wonder 
ful,  wonderful!  I  saw  it  last  night.  Oh,  by  the 
way,  Jim,"  turning  again  to  the  messenger,  "  I  want 
you  to  go  down  into  the  lower  vaults  today." 

The  messenger  followed  the  president  silently.  Of 
course,  they  wanted  him  to  go  down  to  the  lower 
vaults.  It  was  too  dangerous  for  more  valuable  men. 
He  smiled  grimly  and  listened. 

"  Everything  of  value  has  been  moved  out  since 
,  253 


254  DARKWATER 

the  water  began  to  seep  in,"  said  the  president;  "but 
we  miss  two  volumes  of  old  records.  Suppose  you 
nose  around  down  there, — it  isn't  very  pleasant,  I 
suppose." 

"  Not  very,"  said  the  messenger,  as  he  walked  out. 

"  Well,  Jim,  the  tail  of  the  new  comet  hits  us  at 
noon  this  time,"  said  the  vault  clerk,  as  he  passed 
over  the  keys;  but  the  messenger  passed  silently  down 
the  stairs.  Down  he  went  beneath  Broadway,  where 
the  dim  light  filtered  through  the  feet  of  hurrying 
men;  down  to  the  dark  basement  beneath;  down  into 
the  blackness  and  silence  beneath  that  lowest  cavern. 
Here  with  his  dark  lantern  he  groped  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  under  the  world. 

He  drew  a  long  breath  as  he  threw  back  the  last 
great  iron  door  and  stepped  into  the  fetid  slime  within. 
Here  at  last  was  peace,  and  he  groped  moodily  for 
ward.  A  great  rat  leaped  past  him  and  cobwebs 
crept  across  his  face.  He  felt  carefully  around  the 
room,  shelf  by  shelf,  on  the  muddied  floor,  and  in 
crevice  and  corner.  Nothing.  Then  he  went  back 
to  the  far  end,  where  somehow  the  wall  felt  different. 
He  sounded  and  pushed  and  pried.  Nothing.  He 
started  away.  Then  something  brought  him  back. 
He  was  sounding  and  working  again  when  suddenly 
the  whole  black  wall  swung  as  on  mighty  hinges,  and 
blackness  yawned  beyond.  He  peered  in;  it  was 
evidently  a  secret  vault — some  hiding  place  of  the 
old  bank  unknown  in  newer  times.  He  entered  hesi 
tatingly.  It  was  a  long,  narrow  room  with  shelves, 
and  at  the  far  end,  an  old  iron  chest.  On  a  high 


THE  COMET  5>55 

shelf  lay  the  two  missing  volumes  of  records,  and 
others.  He  put  them  carefully  aside  and  stepped  to 
the  chest.  It  was  old,  strong,  and  rusty.  He  looked 
at  the  vast  and  old-fashioned  lock  and  flashed  his 
light  on  the  hinges.  They  were  deeply  incrusted  with 
rust.  Looking  about,  he  found  a  bit  of  iron  and 
began  to  pry.  The  rust  had  eaten  a  hundred  years, 
and  it  had  gone  deep.  Slowly,  wearily,  the  old  lid 
lifted,  and  with  a  last,  low  groan  lay  bare  its  treasure 
— and  he  saw  the  dull  sheen  of  gold ! 

"Boom!" 

A  low,  grinding,  reverberating  crash  struck  upon 
his  ear.  He  started  up  and  looked  about.  All  was 
black  and  still.  He  groped  for  his  light  and  swung 
it  about  him.  Then  he  knew!  The  great  stone  door 
had  swung  to.  He  forgot  the  gold  and  looked  death 
squarely  in  the  face.  Then  with  a  sigh  he  went 
methodically  to  work.  The  cold  sweat  stood  on  his 
forehead;  but  he  searched,  pounded,  pushed,  and 
worked  until  after  what  seemed  endless  hours  his 
hand  struck  a  cold  bit  of  metal  and  the  great  door 
swung  again  harshly  on  its  hinges,  and  then,  striking 
against  something  soft  and  heavy,  stopped.  He  had 
just  room  to  squeeze  through.  There  lay  the  body 
of  the  vault  clerk,  cold  and  stiff.  He  stared  at  it, 
and  then  felt  sick  and  nauseated.  The  air  seemed 
unaccountably  foul,  with  a  strong,  peculiar  odor.  He 
stepped  forward,  clutched  at  the  air,  and  fell  fainting 
across  the  corpse. 

He  awoke  with  a  sense  of  horror,  leaped  from  the 
body,  and  groped  up  the  stairs,  calling  to  the  guard. 


256  DARKWATER 

The  watchman  sat  as  if  asleep,  with  the  gate  swing 
ing  free.  With  one  glance  at  him  the  messenger  hur 
ried  up  to  the  sub-vault.  In  vain  he  called  to  the 
guards.  His  voice  echoed  and  re-echoed  wedrdly. 
Up  into  the  great  basement  he  rushed.  Here  another 
guard  lay  prostrate  on  his  face,  cold  and  still.  A 
fear  arose  in  the  messenger's  heart.  He  dashed  up 
to  the  cellar  floor,  up  into  the  bank.  The  stillness 
of  death  lay  everywhere  and  everywhere  bowed,  bent, 
and  stretched  the  silent  forms  of  men.  The  messen 
ger  paused  and  glanced  about.  He  was  not  a  man 
easily  moved ;  but  the  sight  was  appalling !  "  Rob 
bery  and  murder/'  he  whispered  slowly  to  himself 
as  he  saw  the  twisted,  oozing  mouth  of  the  president 
where  he  lay  half -buried  on  his  desk.  Then  a  new 
thought  seized  him:  If  they  found  him  here  alone — 
wfth  all  this  money  and  all  these  dead  men — what 
would  his  life  be  worth?  He  glanced  about,  tiptoed 
cautiously  to  a  side  door,  and  again  looked  behind. 
Quietly  he  turned  the  latch  and  stepped  out  into  Wall 
Street. 

How  silent  the  street  was !  Not  a  soul  was  stirring, 
and  yet  it  was  high-noon — Wall  Street?  Broadway? 
He  glanced  almost  wildly  up  and  down,  then  across 
the  street,  and  as  he  looked,  a  sickening  horror  froze 
in  his  limbs.  With  a  choking  cry  of  utter  fright  he 
lunged,  leaned  giddily  against  the  cold  building,  and 
stared  helplessly  at  the  sight. 

'  In  the  great  stone  doorway  a  hundred  men  and 
women  and  children  lay  crushed  and  twisted  and 
jammed,  forced  into  that  great,  gaping  doorway  like 


THE  COMET  257 

refuse  in  a  can — as  if  in  one  wild,  frantic  rush  to 
safety,  they  had  crushed  and  ground  themselves  to 
death.  Slowly  the  messenger  crept  along  the  walls, 
wetting  .his  parched  mouth  and  trying  to  compre 
hend,  stilling  the  tremor  in  his  limbs  and  the  rising 
terror  in  his  heart.  He  met  a  business  man,  silk- 
hatted  and  frock-coated,  who  had  crept,  too,  along 
that  smooth  wall  and  stood  now  stone  dead  with 
wonder  written  on  his  lips.  The  messenger  turned 
his  eyes  hastily  away  and  sought  the  curb.  A  woman 
leaned  wearily  against  the  signpost,  her  head  bowed 
motionless  on  her  lace  and  silken  bosom.  Before 
her  stood  a  street  car,  silent,  and  within — but  the  mes 
senger  but  glanced  and  hurried  on.  A  grimy  news 
boy  sat  in  the  gutter  with  the  "  last  edition  "  in  his 
uplifted  hand :  "  Danger !  "  screamed  its  black  head 
lines.  "  Warnings  wired  around  the  world.  The 
Comet's  tail  sweeps  past  us  at  noon.  Deadly  gases 
expected.  Close  doors  and  windows.  Seek  the  cel 
lar."  The  messenger  read  and  staggered  on.  Far  out 
from  a  window  above,  a  girl  lay  with  gasping  face 
and  sleevelets  on  her  arms.  On  a  store  step  sat  a 
little,  sweet-faced  girl  looking  upward  toward  the 
skies,  and  in  the  carriage  by  her  lay — but  the  mes 
senger  looked  no  longer.  The  cords  gave  way — the 
terror  burst  in  his  veins,  and  with  one  great,  gasping 
cry  he  sprang  desperately  forward  and  ran, — ran  as 
only  the  frightened  run,  shrieking  and  fighting  the 
air  until  with  one  last  wail  of  pain  he  sank  on  the 
grass  of  Madison  Square  and  lay  prone  and  still. 
When  he  arose,  he  gave  no  glance  at  the  still  and 


258  DARKWATER 

silent  forms  on  the  benches,  but,  going  to  a  fountain, 
bathed  his  face;  then  hiding  himself  in  a  corner  away 
from  the  drama  of  death,  he  quietly  gripped  himself 
and  thought  the  thing  through :  The  comet  had  swept 
the  earth  and  this  was  the  end.  Was  everybody  dead  ? 
He  must  search  and  see. 

He  knew  that  he  must  steady  himself  and  keep 
calm,  or  he  would  go  insane.  First  he  must  go  to  a 
restaurant.  He  walked  up  Fifth  Avenue  to  a  famous 
hostelry  and  entered  its  gorgeous,  ghost-haunted  halls. 
He  beat  back  the  nausea,  and,  seizing  a  tray  from  dead 
hands,  hurried  into  the  street  and  ate  ravenously, 
hiding  to  keep  out  the  sights. 

"  Yesterday,  they  would  not  have  served  me,"  he 
whispered,  as  he  forced  the  food  down. 

Then  he  started  up  the  street, — looking,  peering, 
telephoning,  ringing  alarms;  silent,  silent  all.  Was 
nobody — nobody — he  dared  not  think  the  thought  and 
hurried  on. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  still.  He  had  forgotten.  My 
God!  How  could  he  have  forgotten?  He  must  rush 
to  the  subway — then  he  almost  laughed.  No — *a  car; 
if  he  could  find  a  Ford.  He  saw  one.  Gently  he  lifted 
off  its  burden,  and  took  his  place  on  the  seat  He 
tested  the  throttle.  There  was  gas.  He  glided  off, 
shivering,  and  drove  up  the  street.  Everywhere  stood, 
leaned,  lounged,  and  lay  the  dead,  in  grim  and  awful 
silence.  On  he  ran  past  an  automobile,  wrecked  and 
overturned ;  past  another,  filled  with  a  gay  party  whose 
smiles  yet  lingered  on  their  death-struck  lips;  on  past 
crowds  and  groups  of  cars,  pausing  by  dead  police- 


THE  COMET  259 

men;  at  42nd  Street  he  had  to  detour  to  Park  Avenue 
to  avoid  the  dead  congestion.  He  came  back  on  Fifth 
Avenue  at  57th  and  flew  past  the  Plaza  and  by  the 
park  with  its  hushed  babies  and  silent  throng,  until 
as  he  was  rushing  past  72nd  Street  he  heard  a 
sharp  cry,  and  saw  a  living  form  leaning  wildly  out 
an  upper  window.  He  gasped.  The  human  voice 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  voice  of  God. 

"  Hello— hello — help,  in  God's  name ! "  wailed  the 
woman.  "  There's  a  dead  girl  in  here  and  a  man  and 
— and  see  yonder  dead  men  lying  in  the  street  and 
dead  horses — for  the  love  of  God  go  and  bring  the 
officers "  And  the  words  trailed  off  into  hys 
terical  tears. 

He  wheeled  the  car  in  a  sudden  circle,  running  over 
the  still  body  of  a  child  and  leaping  on  the  curb. 
Then  he  rushed  up  the  steps  and  tried  the  door  and 
rang  violently.  There  was  a  long  pause,  but  at  last 
the  heavy  door  swung  back.  They  stared  a  moment 
in  silence,  he  had  not  noticed  before  that  he  was  a 
Negro.  He  had  not  thought  of  her  as  white.  She  was 
a  woman  of  perhaps  twenty-five — rarely  beautiful  and 
richly  gowned,  with  darkly-golden  hair,  and  jewels. 
Yesterday,  he  thought  with  bitterness,  she  would 
scarcely  have  looked  at  him  twice.  He  would  have 
been  dirt  beneath  her  silken  feet.  She  stared  at  him. 
Of  all  the  sorts  of  men  she  had  pictured  as  coming 
to  her  rescue  she  had  not  dreamed  of  one  like  him. 
Not  that  he  was  not  human,  but  he  dwelt  in  a  world 
so  far  from  hers,  so  infinitely  far,  that  he  seldom 
even  entered  her  thought.  Yet  as  she  looked  at  him 


26o  DARKWATER 

curiously  he  seemed  quite  commonplace  and  usual. 
He  was  a  tall,  dark  workingman  of  the  better  class, 
with  a  sensitive  face  trained  to  stolidity  and  a  poor 
man's  clothes  and  hands.  His  face  was  soft  and  slow 
and  his  manner  at  once  cold  and  nervous,  like  fires 
long  banked,  but  not  out. 

So  a  moment  each  paused  and  gauged  the  other; 
then  the  thought  of  the  dead  world  without  rushed 
in  and  they  started  toward  each  other. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  cried.  "Tell  me! 
Nothing  stirs.  All  is  silence!  I  see  the  dead  strewn 
before  my  window  as  winnowed  by  the  breath  of 

God, — and  see "    She  dragged  him  through  great, 

silken  hangings  to  where,  beneath  the  sheen  of  mahog 
any  and  silver,  a  little  French  maid  lay  stretched  in 
quiet,  everlasting  sleep,  and  near  her  a  butler  lay  prone 
in  his  livery. 

The  tears  streamed  down  the  woman's  cheeks  and 
she  clung  to  his  arm  until  the  perfume  of  her  breath 
swept  his  face  and  he  felt  the  tremors  racing  through 
her  body. 

"  I  had  been  shut  up  in  my  dark  room  developing 
pictures  of  the  comet  which  I  took  last  night;  when  I 
came  out — I  saw  the  dead ! 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  she  cried  again. 

He  answered  slowly: 

"  Something — comet  or  devil — swept  across  the 
earth  this  morning  and — many  are  dead !  " 

"Many?    Very  many?" 

"  I  have  searched  and  I  have  seen  no  other  living 
soul  but  you." 


THE  COMET  261 

She  gasped  and  they  stared  at  each  other. 

"  My — father !  "  she  whispered. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  He  started  for  the  office." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  In  the  Metropolitan  Tower." 

"  Leave  a  note  for  him  here  and  come." 

Then  he  stopped. 

"  No,"  he  said  firmly — "  first,  we  must  go — to  Har 
lem." 

"  Harlem ! "  she  cried.  Then  she  understood.  She 
tapped  her  foot  at  first  impatiently.  She  looked  back 
and  shuddered.  Then  she  came  resolutely  down  the 
steps. 

"  There's  a  swifter  car  in  the  garage  in  the  court," 
she  said. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  drive  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  do,"  she  answered. 

In  ten  minutes  they  were  flying  to  Harlem  on  the 
wind.  The  Stutz  rose  and  raced  like  an  airplane. 
They  took  the  turn  at  noth  Street  on  two  wheels 
and  slipped  with  a  shriek  into  13  5th. 

He  was  gone  but  a  moment  Then  he  returned, 
and  his  face  was  gray.  She  did  not  look,  but 
said: 

"  You  have  lost — somebody  ?  " 

"  I  have  lost — everybody,"  he  said,  simply — "  un 
less " 

He  ran  back  and  was  gone  several  minutes — hours 
they  seemed  to  her. 

"  Everybody,"  he  said,  and  he  walked  slowly  back 


262  DARKWATER 

with  something  film-like  in  his  hand  which  he  stuffed 
into  his  pocket. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  was  selfish,"  he  said.  But  already  the 
car  was  moving  toward  the  park  among  the  dark 
and  lined  dead  of  Harlem — the  brown,  still  faces,  the 
knotted  hands,  the  homely  garments,  and  the  silence — 
the  wild  and  haunting  silence.  Out  of  the  park,  and 
down  Fifth  Avenue  they  whirled.  In  and  out  among 
the  dead  they  slipped  and  quivered,  needing  no  sound 
of  bell  or  horn,  until  the  great,  square  Metropolitan 
Tower  hove  in  sight.  Gently  he  laid  the  dead  elevator 
boy  aside;  the  car  shot  upward.  The  door  of  the 
ofiice  stood  open.  On  the  threshold  lay  the  stenog 
rapher,  and,  staring  at  her,  sat  the  dead  clerk.  The 
inner  office  was  empty,  but  a  note  lay  on  the  desk, 
folded  and  addressed  but  unsent: 

Dear  Daughter : 

I've  gone  for  a  hundred  mile  spin  in  Fred's  new  Mer 
cedes.  Shall  not  be  back  before  dinner.  I'll  bring 
Fred  with  me. 

J.  B.  H. 

"  Come,"  she  cried  nervously.  "  We  must  search 
the  city." 

Up  and  down,  over  and  across,  back  again— on 
went  that  ghostly  search.  Everywhere  was  silence  and 
death — death  and  silence!  They  hunted  from  Mad 
ison  Square  to  Spuyten  Duyvel;  they  rushed  across 
the  Williamsburg  Bridge;  they  swept  over  Brooklyn; 
from  the  Battery  and  Morningside  Heights  they 
scanned  the  river.  Silence,  silence  everywhere,  and 


THE  COMET  263 

no  human  sign.  Haggard  and  bedraggled  they  puffed 
a  third  time  slowly  down  Broadway,  under  the  broil 
ing  sun,  and  at  last  stopped.  He  sniffed  the  air.  An 
odor — a  smell — and  with  the  shifting  breeze  a  sicken 
ing  stench  filled  their  nostrils  and  brought  its  awful 
warning.  The  girl  settled  back  helplessly  in  her  seat. 

"  What  can  we  do  ?  "  she  cried. 

It  was  his  turn  now  to  take  the  lead,  and  he  did 
it  quickly. 

"  The  long  distance  telephone — the  telegraph  and 
the  cable — night  rockets  and  then — flight !  " 

She  looked  at  him  now  with  strength  and  confidence. 
He  did  not  look  like  men,  as  she  had  always  pictured 
men;  but  he  acted  like  one  and  she  was  content.  In 
fifteen  minutes  they  were  at  the  central  telephone  ex 
change.  As  they  came  to  the  door  he  stepped  quickly 
before  her  and  pressed  her  gently  back  as  he  closed  it. 
She  heard  him  moving  to  and  fro,  and  knew  his  bur 
dens — the  poor,  little  burdens  he  bore.  When  she 
entered,  he  was  alone  in  the  room.  The  grim  switch 
board  flashed  its  metallic  face  in  cryptic,  sphinx-like 
immobility.  She  seated  herself  on  a  stool  and  donned 
the  bright  earpiece.  She  looked  at  the  mouthpiece. 
She  had  never  looked  at  one  so  closely  before.  It 
was  wide  and  black,  pimpled  with  usage;  inert;  dead; 
almost  sarcastic  in  its  unfeeling,  curves.  It  looked — 
she  beat  back  the  thought — but  it  looked, — it  persisted 
in  looking  like — she  turned  her  head  and  found  her 
self  alone.  One  moment  she  was  terrified;  then  she 
thanked  him  silently  for  his  delicacy  and  turned  reso 
lutely,  with  a  quick  intaking  of  breath. 


264  DARKWATER 

"  Hello !  "  she  called  in  low  tones.  She  was  calling 
to  the  world.  The  world  must  answer.  Would  the 
world  answer?  Was  the  world — 

Silence ! 

She  had  spoken  too  low. 

"Hello!"  she  cried,   full-voiced. 

She  listened.  Silence!  Her  heart  beat  quickly. 
She  cried  in  clear,  distinct,  loud  tones :  "  Hello — hello 
—hello!" 

What  was  that  whirring?  Surely — no— was  it  the 
click  of  a  receiver? 

She  bent  close,  she  moved  the  pegs  in  the  holes, 
and  called  and  called,  until  her  voice  rose  almost 
to  a  shriek,  and  her  heart  hammered.  It  was  as  if 
she  had  heard  the  last  flicker  of  creation,  and  the 
evil  was  silence.  Her  voice  dropped  to  a  sob.  She 
sat  stupidly  staring  into  the  black  and  sarcastic  mouth 
piece,  and  the  thought  came  again.  Hope  lay  dead 
within  her.  Yes,  the  cable  and  the  rockets  remained; 
but  the  world — she  could  not  frame  the  thought  or 
say  the  word.  It  was  too  mighty — too  terrible !  She 
turned  toward  the  door  with  a  new  fear  in  her  heart. 
For  the  first  time  she  seemed  to  realize  that  she  was 
alone  in  the  world  with  a  stranger,  with  something 
more  than  a  stranger, — with  a  man  alien  in  blood  and 
culture — unknown,  perhaps  unknowable.  It  was 
awful!  She  must  escape — she  must  fly;  he  must  not 
see  her  again.  Who  knew  what  awful  thoughts — 

She  gathered  her  silken  skirts  deftly  about  her 
young,  smooth  limbs — listened,  and  glided  into  a  side- 
hall.  A  moment  she  shrank  back:  the  hall  lay  filled 


THE  COMET  265 

with  dead  women;  then  she  leaped  to  the  door  and 
tore  at  it,  with  bleeding  fingers,  until  it  swung  wide. 
She  looked  out.  He  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the 
alley, — silhouetted,  tall  and  black,  motionless.  Was 
he  looking  at  her  or  away?  She  did  not  know — she 
did  not  care.  She  simply  leaped  and  ran — ran  until 
she  found  herself  alone  amid  the  dead  and  the  tall 
ramparts  of  towering  buildings. 

She  stopped.  She  was  alone.  Alone!  Alone  on 
the  streets — alone  in  the  city — perhaps  alone  in  the 
world!  There  crept  in  upon  her  the  sense  of  decep 
tion — of  creeping  hands  behind  her  back — of  silent, 
moving  things  she  could  not  see, — of  voices  hushed 
in  fearsome  conspiracy.  She  looked  behind  and  side 
ways,  started  at  strange  sounds  and  heard  still  stran 
ger,  until  every  nerve  within  her  stood  sharp  and 
quivering,  stretched  to  scream  at  the  barest  touch. 
She  whirled  and  flew  back,  whimpering  like  a  child, 
until  she  found  that  narrow  alley  again  and  the  dark, 
silent  figure  silhouetted  at  the  top.  She  stopped  and 
rested;  then  she  walked  silently  toward  him,  looked 
at  him  timidly;  but  he  said  nothing  as  he  handed  her 
into  the  car.  Her  voice  caught  as  she  whispered: 

"  Not— that." 

And  he  answered  slowly :  "  No — not  that !  " 

They  climbed  into  the  car.  She  bent  forward  on 
the  wheel  and  sobbed,  with  great,  dry,  quivering  sobs, 
as  they  flew  toward  the  cable  office  on  the  east  side, 
leaving  the  world  of  wealth  and  prosperity  for  the 
world  of  poverty  and  work.  In  the  world  behind  them 
were  death  and  silence,  grave  and  grim,  almost  cyni- 


266  DARKWATER 

cal,  but  always  decent ;  here  it  was  hideous.  It  clothed 
itself  in  every  ghastly  form  of  terror,  struggle,  hate, 
and  suffering.  It  lay  wreathed  in  crime  and  squalor, 
greed  and  lust.  Only  in  its  dread  and  awful  silence 
was  it  like  to  death  everywhere. 

Yet  as  the  two,  flying  and  alone,  looked  upon  the 
horror  of  the  world,  slowly,  gradually,  the  sense  of 
all-enveloping  death  deserted  them.  They  seemed  to 
move  in  a  world  silent  and  asleep, — not  dead.  They 
moved  in  quiet  reverence,  lest  somehow  they  wake  these 
sleeping  forms  who  had,  at  last,  found  peace.  They 
moved  in  some  solemn,  world-wide  Friedhof,  above 
which  some  mighty  arm  had  waved  its  magic  wand. 
All  nature  slept  until — until,  and  quick  with  the  same 
startling  thought,  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes — 
he,  ashen,  and  she,  crimson,  with  unspoken  thought. 
To  both,  the  vision  of  a  mighty  beauty — of  vast,  un 
spoken  things,  swelled  in  their  souls;  but  they  put  it 
away. 

Great,  dark  coils  of  wire  came  up  from  the  earth 
and  down  from  the  sun  and  entered  this  low  lair 
of  witchery.  The  gathered  lightnings  of  the  world 
centered  here,  binding  with  beams  of  light  the  ends 
of  the  earth.  The  doors  gaped  on  the  gloom  within. 
He  paused  on  the  threshold. 

"  Do  you  know  the  code  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  know  the  call  for  help — we  used  it  formerly  at 
the  bank." 

She  hardly  heard.  She  heard  the  lapping  of 
the  waters  far  below, — the  dark  and  restless  waters 
• — the  cold  and  luring  waters,  as  they  called.  He 


THE  COMET  267 

stepped  within.  Slowly  she  walked  to  the  wall,  where 
the  water  called  below,  and  stood  and  waited.  Long 
she  waited,  and  he  did  not  come.  Then  with  a  start 
she  saw  him,  too,  standing  beside  the  black  waters. 
Slowly  he  removed  his  coat  and  stood  there  silently. 
She  walked  quickly  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  He  did  not  start  or  look.  The  waters  lapped 
on  in  luring,  deadly  rhythm.  He  pointed  down  to  the 
waters,  and  said  quietly : 

"  The  world  lies  beneath  the  waters  now — may  I 
go?" 

She  looked  into  his  stricken,  tired  face,  and  a  great 
pity  surged  within  her  heart.  She  answered  in  a  voice 
clear  and  calm,  "  No." 

Upward  they  turned  .toward  life  again,  and  he 
seized  the  wheel.  The  world  was  darkening  to  twi 
light,  and  a  great,  gray  pall  was  falling  mercifully 
and  gently  on  the  sleeping  dead.  The  ghastly  glare 
of  reality  seemed  replaced  with  the  dream  of  some 
vast  romance.  The  girl  lay  silently  back,  as  the  motor 
whizzed  along,  and  looked  half -consciously  for  the 
elf -queen  to  wave  life  into  this  dead  world  again. 
She  forgot  to  wonder  at  the  quickness  with  which  he 
had  learned  to  drive  her  car.  It  seemed  natural.  And 
then  as  they  whirled  and  swung  into  Madison  Square 
and  at  the  door  of  the  Metropolitan  Tower  she  gave  a 
low  cry,  and  her  eyes  were  great!  Perhaps  she  had 
seen  the  elf -queen? 

The  man  led  her  to  the  elevator  of  the  tower  and 
deftly  they  ascended.  In  her  father's  office  they  gath 
ered  rugs  and  chairs,  and  he  wrote  a  note  and  laid 


268  DARKWATER 

it  on  the  desk;  then  they  ascended  to  the  roof  and 
he  made  her  comfortable.  For  a  while  she  rested  and 
sank  to  dreamy  somnolence,  watching  the  worlds 
above  and  wondering.  Below  lay  the  dark  shadows 
of  the  city  and  afar  was  the  shining  of  the  sea.  She 
glanced  at  him  timidly  as  he  set  food  before  her  and 
took  a  shawl  and  wound  her  in  it,  touching  her  rever 
ently,  yet  tenderly.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  thank 
fulness  in  her  eyes,  eating  what  he  served.  He  watched 
the  city.  She  watched  him.  He  seemed  very  human, 
— very  near  now. 

"  Have  you  had  to  work  hard  ?  "  she  asked  softly. 

"Always,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  always  been  idle,"  she  said.    "  I  was  rich." 

"  I  was  poor,"  he  almost  echoed. 

"  The  rich  and  the  poor  are  met  together,"  she 
began,  and  he  finished: 

"  The  Lord  is  the  Maker  of  them  all." 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly;  "and  how  foolish  our 
human  distinctions  seem — now,"  looking  down  to  the 
great  dead  city  stretched  below,  swimming  in  unlight- 
ened  shadows. 

"  Yes — I  was  not — human,  yesterday,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him.  "  And  your  people  were  not 

my  people,"  she  said;  "but  today "  She  paused. 

He  was  a  man, — no  more;  but  he  was  in  some  larger 
sense  a  gentleman, — sensitive,  kindly,  chivalrous, 
everything  save  his  hands  and — his  face.  Yet  yes 
terday — 

"Death,  the  leveler!"  he  muttered. 

"  And  the  revealer,"  she  whispered  gently,  rising  to 


THE  COMET  269 

her  feet  with  great  eyes.  He  turned  away,  and  after 
fumbling  a  moment  sent  a  rocket  into  the  darkening 
air.  It  arose,  shrieked,  and  flew  up,  a  slim  path  of 
light,  and,  scattering  its  stars  abroad,  dropped  on 
the  city  below.  She  scarcely  noticed  it.  A  vision  of 
the  world  had  risen  before  her.  Slowly  the  mighty 
prophecy  of  her  destiny  overwhelmed  her.  Above  the 
dead  past  hovered  the  Angel  of  Annunciation.  She 
was  no  mere  woman.-  She  was  neither  high  nor  low, 
white  nor  black,  rich  nor  poor.  She  was  primal 
woman;  mighty  mother  of  all  men  to  come  and  Bride 
of  Life.  She  looked  upon  the  man  beside  her  and 
forgot  all  else  but  his  manhood,  his  strong,  vigorous 
manhood — his  sorrow  and  sacrifice.  She  saw  him 
glorified.  He  was  no  longer  a  thing  apart,  a  creature 
below,  a  strange  outcast  of  another  clime  and  blood, 
but  her  Brother  Humanity  incarnate,  Son  of  God  and 
great  All-Father  of  the  race  to  be. 

He  did  not  glimpse  the  glory  in  her  eyes,  but  stood 
looking  outward  toward  the  sea  and  sending  rocket 
after  rocket  into  the  unanswering  darkness.  Dark- 
purple  clouds  lay  banked  and  billowed  in  the  west. 
Behind  them  and  all  around,  the  heavens  glowed  in 
dim,  weird  radiance  that  suffused  the  darkening  world 
and  made  almost  a  minor  music.  Suddenly,  as  though 
gathered  back  in  some  vast  hand,  the  great  cloud- 
curtain  fell  away.  Low  on  the  horizon  lay  a  long, 
white  star — mystic,  wonderful!  And  from  it  fled 
upward  to  the  pole,  like  some  wan  bridal  veil,  a  pale, 
wide  sheet  of  flame  that  lighted  all  the  world  and 
dimmed  the  stars. 


270  DARKWATER 

In  fascinated  silence  the  man  gazed  at  the  heavens 
and  dropped  his  rockets  to  the  floor.  Memories  of 
memories  stirred  to  life  in  the  dead  recesses  of  his 
mind.  The  shackles  seemed  to  rattle  and  fall  from 
his  soul.  Up  from  the  crass  and  crushing  and  cring 
ing  of  his  caste  leaped  the  lone  majesty  of  kings  long 
dead.  He  arose  within  the  shadows,  tall,  straight,  and 
stern,  with  power  in  his  eyes  and  ghostly  scepters 
hovering  to  his  grasp.  It  was  as  though  some  mighty 
Pharaoh  lived  again,  or  curled  Assyrian  lord.  He 
turned  and  looked  upon  the  lady,  and  found  her  gaz 
ing  straight  at  him. 

Silently,  immovably,  they  saw  each  other  face  to 
face — eye  to  eye.  Their  souls  lay  naked  to  the  night. 
It  was  not  lust;  it  was  not  love — it  was  some  vaster, 
mightier  thing  that  needed  neither  touch  of  body  nor 
thrill  of  soul.  It  was  a  thought  divine,  splendid. 

Slowly,  noiselessly,  they  moved  toward  each  other — 
the  heavens  above,  the  seas  around,  the  city  grim  and 
dead  below.  He  loomed  from  out  the  velvet  shadows 
vast  and  dark.  Pearl-white  and  slender,  she  shone 
beneath  the  stars.  She  stretched  her  jeweled  hands 
abroad.  He  lifted  up  his  mighty  arms,  and  they  cried 
each  to  the  other,  almost  with  one  voice,  "  The  world 
is  dead." 

"  Long  live  the " 

"Honk!  Honk!"  Hoarse  and  sharp  the  cry  of 
a  motor  drifted  clearly  up  from  the  silence  below. 
They  started  backward  with  a  cry  and  gazed  upon 
each  other  with  eyes  that  faltered  and  fell,  with  blood 
that  boiled. 


THE  COMET  271 

"Honk!  Honk!  Honk!  Honk !"  came  the  mad 
cry  again,  and  almost  from  their  feet  a  rocket  blazed 
into  the  air  and  scattered  its  stars  upon  them.  She 
covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  and  her  shoulders 
heaved.  He  dropped  and  bowed,  groped  blindly  on 
his  knees  about  the  floor.  A  blue  flame  spluttered 
lazily  after  an  age,  and  she  heard  the  scream  of  an 
answering  rocket  as  it  flew. 

Then  they  stood  still  as  death,  looking  to  opposite 
ends  of  the  earth. 

"  Clang — crash — clang !  " 

The  roar  and  ring  of  swift  elevators  shooting  up 
ward  from  below  made  the  great  tower  tremble.  A' 
murmur  and  babel  of  voices  swept  in  upon  the  night. 
All  over  the  once  dead  city  the  lights  blinked,  flickered, 
and  flamed;  and  then  with  a  sudden  clanging  of  doors 
the  entrance  to  the  platform  was  filled  with  men,  and 
one  with  white  and  flying  hair  rushed  to  the  girl 
and  lifted  her  to  his  breast.  "My  daughter!"  he 
sobbed. 

Behind  him  hurried  a  younger,  comelier  man,  care 
fully  clad  in  motor  costume,  who  bent  above  the  girl 
with  passionate  solicitude  and  gazed  into  her  staring 
eyes  until  they  narrowed  and  dropped  and  her  face 
flushed  deeper  and  deeper  crimson. 

"  Julia,"  he  whispered;  "  my  darling,  I  thought  you 
were  gone  forever." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  strange,  searching  eyes. 

"Fred,"  she  murmured,  almost  vaguely,  "is  the 
world — gone?  " 

"Only  New  York,"  he  answered;  "it  is  terrible — 


272  DARKWATER 

awful!  You  know, — but  you,  how  did  you  escape — 
how  have  you  endured  this  horror?  Are  you  well? 
Unharmed?" 

"  Unharmed !  "  she  said. 

"  And  this  man  here  ? "  he  asked,  encircling  her 
drooping  form  with  one  arm  and  turning  toward  the 
Negro.  Suddenly  he  stiffened  and  his  hand  flew  to 
his  hip.  "  Why !  "  he  snarled.  "  It's — a — nigger — 
Julia!  Has  he — has  he  dared " 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  her  late  com 
panion  curiously  and  then  dropped  her  eyes  with  a 
sigh. 

"  He  has  dared — all,  to  rescue  me,"  she  said  quietly, 
"and  I — thank  him— much."  But  she  did  not  look 
at  him  again.  As  the  couple  turned  away,  the  father 
drew  a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pockets. 

"  Here,  my  good  fellow,"  he  said,  thrusting  the 
money  into  the  manfs  hands,  "  take  that, — what's  your 
name  ?  " 

"  Jim  Davis,"  came  the  answer,  hollow-voiced. 

"  Well,  Jim,  I  thank  you.  I've  always  liked  your 
people.  If  you  ever  want  a  job,  call  on  me."  And 
they  were  gone. 

The  crowd  poured  up  and  out  of  the  elevators, 
talking  and  whispering. 

"Who  was  it?" 

"Are  they  alive?" 

"How  many?" 

"Two!" 

"Who  was  saved?" 

"A  white  girl  and  a  nigger — there  she  goes." 


THE  COMET  273 

"  A  nigger  ?  Where  is  he  ?  Let's  lynch  the 
damned " 

"  Shut  up—he's  all  right— he  saved  her." 

"  Saved  hell !    He  had  no  business " 

"  Here  he  comes." 

Into  the  glare  of  the  electric  lights  the  colored  man 
moved  slowly,  with  the  eyes  of  those  that  walk  and 
sleep. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  cried  a  by 
stander;  "of  all  New  York,  just  a  white  girl  and  a 
nigger!" 

The  colored  man  heard  nothing.  He  stood  silently 
beneath  the  glare  of  the  light,  gazing  at  the  money 
in  his  hand  and  shrinking  as  he  gazed;  slowly  he  put 
his  other  hand  into  his  pocket  and  brought  out  a  baby's 
filmy  cap,  and  gazed  again.  A  woman  mounted  to 
the  platform  and  looked  about,  shading  her  eyes. 
She  was  brown,  small,  and  toil-worn,  and  in  one  arm 
lay  the  corpse  of  a  dark  baby.  The  crowd  parted  and 
her  eyes  fell  on  the  colored  man;  with  a  cry  she 
tottered  toward  him. 

"Jim!" 

He  whirled  and,  with  a  sob  of  joy,  caught  her  in 
his  arms. 


'A  Hymn  to  the  Peoples 

O  Truce  of  God! 

And  primal  meeting  of  the  Sons  of  Man, 
Foreshadowing  the  union  of  the  World! 
From  all  the  ends  of  earth  we  come! 
Old  Night,  the  elder  sister  of  the  Day, 
Mother  of  Dawn  in  the  golden  East, 
Meets  in  the  misty  twilight  with  her  brood, 
Pale  and  black,  tawny,  red  and  brown, 
The  mighty  human  rainbow  of  the  world, 
Spanning  its  wilderness  of  storm. 

Softly  in  sympathy  the  sunlight  falls, 

Rare  is  the  radiance  of  the  moon; 

And  on  the  darkest  midnight  blaze  the  stars — 

The  far-flown  shadows  of  whose  brilliance 

Drop  like  a  dream  on  the  dim  shores  of  Time, 

Forecasting  Days  that  are  to  these 

As  day  to  night. 

So  sit  we  all  as  one. 

So,  gloomed  in  tall  and  stone-swathed  groves, 

The  Buddha  walks  with  Christ! 

And  Al-Koran  and  Bible  both  be  holy! 

Almighty  Word! 

In  this  Thine  awful  sanctuary, 

First  and  flame-haunted  City  of  the  Widened  World, 

Assoil  us,  Lord  of  Lands  and  Seas! 

We  are  but  weak  and  wayward  men, 
Distraught  alike  with  hatred  and  vainglory; 
',275 


276  A  HYMN  TO  THE  PEOPLES 

Prone  to  despise  the  Soul  that  breathes  within — 
High  visioned  hordes  that  lie  and  steal  and  kill, 
Sinning  the  sin  each  separate  heart  disclaims, 
Clambering  upon  our  riven,  writhing  selves, 
Besieging  Heaven  by  trampling  men  to  Hell ! 

We  be  blood-guilty !    Lo,  our  hands  be  red ! 

Not  one  may  blame  the  other  in  this  sin! 

But  here — here  in  the  white  Silence  of  the  Dawn, 

Before  the  Womb  of  Time, 

With  bowed  hearts  all  flame  and  shame, 

We  face  the  birth-pangs  of  a  world : 

We  hear  the  stifled  cry  of  Nations  all  but  born — 

The  wail  of  women  ravished  of  their  stunted  brood ! 

We  see  the  nakedness  of  Toil,  the  poverty  of  Wealth, 

We  know  the  Anarchy  of  Empire,  and  doleful  Death 

of  Life! 
And  hearing,  seeing,  knowing  all,  we  cry: 

Save  us,  World-Spirit,  from  our  lesser  selves! 
Grant  us  that  war  and  hatred  cease, 
Reveal  our  souls  in  every  race  and  hue ! 
Help  us,  O  Human  God,  in  this  Thy  Truce, 
To  make  Humanity  divine! 


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